


A Pillow of Daisies

by Bidawee



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Celts, Explicit Sexual Content, Historical Fantasy, Historical Inaccuracy, Implied Mpreg, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Internalized Misogyny, M/M, Menstruation, Non-Sexual Slavery, Period Typical Attitudes, Prisoner of War, Threats of Violence, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-26 03:09:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20735270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bidawee/pseuds/Bidawee
Summary: They dock at the west shore of Northumbria at dusk, the wind flapping in their sails. The ocean tide helps push their ship forward. The waves lap at their oars, welcoming them back.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RageBear](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RageBear/gifts), [Ninja_poof](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ninja_poof/gifts).

> You may be familiar with my viking AU I wrote over a year ago. This story has a bit in common with it but is a separate universe I have chatficced with my beloved Riot and Ally. I’m hoping to add more chapters later on but for now, this is the introductory portion.
> 
> I did do minimal research but take liberties when you’re reading. This has a lot more love put into it than it does research.

They dock at the west shore of Northumbria at dusk, the wind flapping in their sails. The ocean tide helps push their ship forward. The waves lap at their oars, welcoming them back.

Under the watch of the moon, they dismount at shore and begin walking. The weak beams of white light balance on the tip of his nose, disappearing as they duck into a wooded area and the view of the sky disappears. The grass squelches under their feet. It’s hard to see but they make do, using the marks on the land to determine where they are: big rocks, a tree splintered in two by what he can only assume was a storm, and the purple tips of heather in the distance.

Further on, they come to a section where the trees part and open to a clearing where the mud has hardened because of the night’s cool air. The imprint of feet and hooves are captured inside of it, following the path as it winds into the distance. It’s a sign of civilization, meaning they’re headed in the right direction.

The Danes use the erosion of the earth as a shelter from the wind. Some of his men tug mounds of cloth onto their laps to keep heat close to their body. They wait for the sky to lighten. All around them, nature chirps on, unaware of what’s about to take place. Frederik can see the world as it is for the people that live here, untouched and ripe. The earth is fertile and the streams clear, a perfect place to settle.

They’re intercepted at the top of the hill. Mist rolls lazily over the peak, wafting in and out of a brigade of men in the distance. Frederik can see their heads popping out. The shapes of their bodies are undefined, covered by their long shields that touch the ground. Not one of them budges as the Danes rise to meet the challenge.

It’s unfortunate that the Celts know that they’re here before they can take advantage of the element of surprise. Frederik expected that would be the case, after watching men flee in boats after their previous raid and headed in this direction. Word travels fast when it’s on the backs of men running for their lives. Had their victory been unanimous, they might be sailing home. Unfortunately, they can’t abandon their earned land without first making sure reinforcements won’t come and steal it out from under them once they’re gone.

What a shame it has to be the Celts; always a thorn in their side even if their bark is worse than their bite. Their men are prickly. Their women are pleasing to the eye but plucky. They always manage to put up a fight, regardless if it’s in their best interests. Some say the Danes fight dirty but surely the Celts fight dirtier, many having perfected the art of playing dead. Needless to say, Frederik's had one too many close calls with them. Had it not been for their clunky boots, Frederik's back might be sliced open already.

He’s learned from his mistakes. He brings more raiders with him and never underestimates having reinforced armour to save him when his reflexes cannot. The Celtics too have evolved. Some groups farther north are fashioning helmets and braided leather plates they wear over their chests. This group, he’s unfamiliar with. Blue paint is smeared on their faces and some have slicked their hair into spikes. They’re unlike who they fought two days prior in appearance but their loyalties are the same. It means they must be eliminated.

There’s a flurry of movement as both sides charge into each other, bodies meeting steel and torch fire eating the banner flags they fly high above the fighting. Frederik shows no mercy: the first opponent that challenges him uses a sword, much like the majority of the Celtics. Their weapons clash.

Frederik ducks under the first blow and brings a leg up to kick the man down. He raises his broadaxe over his head and brings the force down on the man. Once, twice, three times. He feels the blade dig in and produce big red welts. The man blathers, his saliva red, and then goes limp.

Another man behind Frederik gets the head of his axe in his abdomen. Frederik overpowers him using size alone. The man makes the mistake of bearing his throat and gets his jugular cut. It’s messy. The spray hits Frederik in the face. It’s hot, stinking blood. It streaks down his chin.

Dust and dirt are kicked up in every direction. Frederik rubs one hand down his face to clear the blood, so that it does not drip into his eyes. He swings his axe at a few others, not aiming for anyone in particular. There’s an advantage that comes from going in from behind, when two men are locked in combat and so focused on their own offence that the knife in the back does more than its fair share of damage. 

There are very few men that look him in the eye and want to challenge him. That’s why the next opponent is so distinctive. He rushes at him, sword lifted into the air. Frederik braces himself, taking one large step forward and meeting him a quarter-way. 

The meeting of their weapons is violent. The man loses his footing but quickly regains it. He flies under Frederik’s arms, looking to get a blow under his armpit which Frederik predicts and steps out of the way. Steel meets steel again. The vibrations run up Frederik’s arm. What the man lacks in size he makes up for with speed and there isn’t any onset that Frederik could use that the man couldn’t defend against using his sword.

The man’s weakness is that he gets close. The first time Freddie grabs at him, he misses. The second time, Frederik takes advantage of the man's tendency to lean to the right to strike to the left, making him lose his balance. That’s where he lands a kick, forcing the man to his knees. Another kick, and he's on his back.

He looks down at the boyish face, with his red hair circling him in a crown of light. His face is flushed with colour, a single curved line down the side of his cheek, indicating that Frederik’s blow broke skin. The boy’s nostrils flare. He picks up his feet and kicks Frederik in the stomach as hard as he can. When Frederik topples, he wiggles out from under him using the small space it creates.

Once freed, the boy rolls onto his side, getting to his feet and reaching for his iron sword. Frederik beats him to it, hoisting up his axe and throwing it in the boy’s direction using all of the strength in his upper body.

Having anticipated the swing, the boy grabs onto the earth with his heels and twists his torso. The wind slaps the boy’s face; tiny beads of blood slide down because of the momentum. The boy’s eyes narrow, his hands strike out, trying to grab Frederik by the loose cloth around his waist.

Frederik lets the boy grab him so that he can push the boy forward and onto his stomach. It doesn’t go as planned, the boy is concealing a dagger that he stabs into Frederik’s shoulder. Frederik roars in pain, his fingers curling inward as pain rushes up his arm. It’s not enough to stun him, just make him lose his breath. He remedies what’s been done to him by crushing the boy to his chest and placing one hand over the boy’s throat. He squeezes until he hears the boy struggle to breathe.

He won’t strangle him, but he will cut his air just enough to turn the boy purple in the face. The boy starts coughing, finger curled into the earth. Frederik knocks the dagger in his hand free. He can see that the point is dark with his blood.

Frederik’s own weapon was dropped when he was struck. It’s too far for him to grab unless he wants to let the boy go, which is not an option. Instead, he straddles the boy’s stomach and pumps the air out of him. Both of the boy’s skinny arms reach out; his hands grab Frederik’s wrist and try to pull him free. When that doesn’t work, he claws at Frederik’s cheek. The boy’s eyes are wide, the gold flecks in his eyes glimmering.

One lucky fingernail claws too close to Frederik’s eye for comfort, and he relents. The boy uses the opportunity to buck his hips. He shoves Frederik’s hand away from his throat, flops onto his side, and grabs the dagger. He drives it into Frederik’s unprotected thigh, twisting it for good measure.

Frederik is winded. He has to take a second to recuperate. The dagger is jagged and because he’s so close, the boy is able to drive it in deep. The boy releases his hold on the handle, leaving it lodged in the meat of the skin there. In the second it takes Frederik to pull it out, the boy is already out of reach.

He disappears into the tall grass without looking back, leaving Frederik behind. Frederik tries to chase him in the direction he runs but by the time he’s recovered enough to stumble forward, the boy has already blended in with his surroundings. Frederik didn’t injure him enough to do any lasting damage, so there’s no hope of following the trail of blood.

He shakes his head to clear it. His next opponent is an unfortunate one: he takes out his frustration on their body. He mutilates an arm before the red haze clears and he backs away. The momentum of the fight has calmed down. The sides have split in two directions, in the middle portion a streak of red that continues up the hill to where some of his fighters have pressed onward. A few Celts lay in the wake of it, having put up the last stand their wounds are the most visible. 

Not long after, he hears the belt of a horn. Someone has called a retreat--early in the fight but not to his surprise. Their men have no reinforcements. In combat, they hesitate. Their soldiers appear younger-looking; it feels like Frederik could knock them over with the push of his hand.

The live ones scramble over the edge of the moor to safety, only to find that the Danes have pushed forward and broke their front line into pieces. Frederik can see his bright red colours standing at the mouth of the valley, blocking the exit from which they came. It is then the Celtics realize they’re surrounded.

Some panic and drop their swords as they try to charge through the pockets of Danes, to varying degrees of success. The smart ones surrender where they stand, allowing themselves to be rounded up. They’re the men that will leave in one piece. 

Frederik walks by some of the dead, occasionally seeing bloodied bodies that he cannot identify. Whether they are dismembered or simply the victim of a warrior’s fury, the effect is the same. He never inspects a body for longer than it takes to inhale so he can’t be sure, but at first glance, the boy wasn’t able to be killed by any of his men either. Seeing as how the survivors are being lined up, he’ll get his answer relatively soon.

His men part to let him enter the fold. What looks like the leader of this particular group of Celts is defined by the bright blue markings on his face. His black hair is tangled and it would appear he’s an older man if not for the lack of wrinkles and scars on his face. Compared to most, this one is a child. A wildly impulsive child at that, even with a dagger in his leg he whips around and snarls at those who come close. 

He sobers up as Frederik draws near, realizing the situation he’s in. Nothing this man or his army could do would be able to deter them from moving forward and taking their fair share from inside the village. He prattles on about paying them to leave, not an uncommon occurrence but shameful nonetheless. Frederik doesn't _want_ anything besides to send a message. And he believes it's been well received.

Frederik would extinguish his life then and there but it’s more satisfying to watch him realize the people he’s sworn to protect are screaming out for help, down the slope. Luckily for him, Frederik’s men are tired. They are homesick and in some, skinny. No one has the time or energy to feast to their victory. Instead, they are careless. They take what they want and run back to freedom, most of the village people unscathed.

Their forts in east Northumbria won’t be challenged and word will make its way north to dissuade any other challengers from assembling in their absence. Frederik has just one more thing to do first.

The front line of kneeling warriors doesn’t look him in the eye as he walks the length of them. Their tunics are torn into pieces, the thick splotches of blood smudging their war paint. It sticks their trousers to their bodies, joined by the mud that sucks their knees down. Frederik shows some teeth at the sight of their oval shields face-down in front of them, the stitches holding the animal hide in place snipped as a result of combat.

Their faces are twisted, dirty, and disgusting. He presses on. He knows who he is looking for and his body is in agreement, his shoulder pulsing with pain. It takes him a minute, but as he nears the end of the row he spots something--or should he say someone--that catches his eye. The rain has plastered his hair to his forehead and darkened it, but it makes no difference. The red hair and freckles are undeniably him. Even if that were not the case, the wound on his left cheek looks the same as the one that Frederik made on that warrior’s face.

He recognizes Frederik. The glint in his eyes gives him away. From that alone, Frederik can tell he is a man of pride. He holds his chin up, lips pressed together into a firm line. Without his weapon, he is naked. He relies on all the might he can push onto his face to intimidate Frederik now.

He shoves the boy forward with the shaft of his axe. Then again, once the boy is back on his feet. His men are old hands at this game, they follow his lead and pick out a few of the Celtics that catch their eye. Frederik’s boy must read his actions as taunts because he keeps glaring at him, trying to rejoin his men. Frederik doesn’t let him. He pushes until the boy is completely separated from the Celtics, enough that he gets the message across. Luckily, the boy stops trying to walk around him once he realizes the futility of doing so. 

That spark of defiance in the eyes of his boy dies out then. He knows that he will be coming with them back to Denmark—to throw his back out working the fields as a slave. He, along with the other soldiers and lords that serve the king, will forever know Frederik bested them. 

The boy should be thanking him. He’s part of the group that will become their survivors. Once their pickings are selected, he lets his men have at the rest to hack them into little pieces so that their king gets the message. Frederik has his back turned to the action but he can see the events play out in the eyes of the boy. He starts screaming, trying to run back only to be forced to the ground. 

He has half a mind to humiliate this boy like he would a war bride. After all, he’s certainly pretty enough to be one. No one would bat an eye if he bound the boy’s hands together and lead him down the dirt roads back home. He’d look so lovely with his hair scrubbed free of dirt clumps and his skin bright with the sheen of decorative oil.

Right now though, Frederik will make him suffer a warrior’s defeat. Sooner than later, he’ll know the importance of staying in his good graces, or else join his brethren down in the fields. His boy joins the other prisoners rounded up at the edge of the moor, bare legs tickled by the heather. Some suffer under the weight of their injuries, even though Frederik’s men were careful not to pick those who were sure to bleed out before sunset. 

None of their raiders have horses with them and it’s a long walk to their boats. The prisoners carry their burdens, which helps lighten the load. Frederik is already feeling the exhaustion seeping into his bones. He walks with a slight limp because of his leg wound, exacerbated by his armour rubbing against the surface and drawing blood. Frederik bears it with a grimace. He’ll be happy to be back at sea and later, their homestead. 

The boy is quiet the whole way. His skimpy clothes--acting as armour--are torn and patchy, but show no wounds. None that need immediate attending to, at least. It makes sense that he would escape unscathed. He could weasel his way through the smallest hole if he so wished. It makes his capture more impressive, even if Frederik had no hand in doing it.

They board their ships and even with the added presence of the prisoners with them, those who chose to stay behind out West greatly outnumber those that they’re taking back with them. The prisoners are finally allowed to rest, some collapsing to their knees once they’re kicked to the side. His boy is one of them. He steadies himself on his elbow, sucking in a breath.

Frederik can smell the salt of the ocean sea on his top lip. It’s too foggy to see far into the distance but there’s a ball of light in the distance that can only be the sun, throwing beams onto the waves before them so that they light up gold. It’s showing him the way home. 

Most of their manpower is concentrated around getting the ship to sea; once the heaving and hollering are done they can finally focus on the more pressing matters. It isn’t long before his sights are set back on the boy, who looks like he’s about to be sick once the boat’s in motion. Frederik could believe that this is the first time he’s ever been on a vessel of this size, if at all in his lifetime. It must be a combination of the movement and the departure from soil--_his _ soil--that makes his face turn white. 

Frederik kneels down beside him so that the rocking motion of the boat doesn’t make him lose his balance and fall. The boy doesn’t look up at him. Frederik has to grab a hand of hair and pull him up. The boy sheds a few red curls.

“Are you going to be sick?” he asks. The words feel foreign, even spoken on his tongue. He’s picked up enough to communicate with the Celts on numerous occasions, although not without a few difficulties.

The boy looks bewildered. It takes him a second to find his voice. “Who are you?” he asks. His voice is low but his words are emotional. Frederik gives himself a second to make sure he heard him right.

“We are the victors,” Frederik says, because it’s the truth. It seldom matters where his individual allegiance lies.

The boy’s face sours. “What are you, vikings?” he asks. The sneer that accompanies his words makes his opinion of them known.

“No, but you may think like that, if it pleases you.”

“It does not, I’ll call you _deamhan.”_

“You will call me Frederik and nothing else, or you’ll lose a finger.”

The boy's pupils shrink to a tiny point. The fingers on his right hand curl inward.

Frederik’s throat produces a happy rumble. “What were you and your mercenary band doing so close to shore?”

“I don’t see why it matters.”

“You are right, it doesn’t. They are none of your concern now.”

Him saying that makes the boy’s mouth turn downwards and into an unpleasant shape. It doesn’t compliment his eyes—makes him look forlorn. Not determined. Surrendered.

Frederik wants to bring that fire back. “You have my name, why don’t you tell me yours?”

“It’s none of your concern,” he swings Frederik’s words back at him.

Frederik doesn’t answer him on the spot. He crouched down, uses one hand to grab the boy’s chin and force his head up so that he’s looking him in the eye. When the boy tries to pull his head away, Frederik clenches his fingers. It forces the boy to clench his teeth together.

“Who bested you in battle?” Frederik questions.

The boy is silent for a minute. Frederik waits on his answer without moving a muscle.

“You,” the boy spits out.

“Who spared your life?”

“You.”

“And who could throw you to sea right this second?”

The boy swallows. “You.”

Frederik lowers his voice. “Show me the respect I deserve. Now tell me, what is your name?”

The answer comes through the boy’s teeth. “Connor.” There is no hesitation.

He releases Connor’s face. If the boy’s hands were untied, he might rub at his jaw to alleviate the ache. Frederik has no pity for him. 

He leaves Connor there to wallow in his misery. His attention is better suited for overseeing operations on the ship. A few onlookers get a word in when he passes. Their wily beards dangle as they speak.

“Why bother yourself with a creature like him?”

Frederik quirks his lip. “I need someone to look after me. Who else can say they have a Celt serving them?”

“Your own Celt? Let’s hope he cleans your bedchambers with the same ferocity he brings to battle.”

Frederik joins them in a boisterous laugh. They’re all in good spirits. On the journey home, having conquered land. The last of their opponents have been slaughtered. Their men are in good health. And he can feel the pressing glare of their captives, burning bright on the back of his neck.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's always my second chapter where the story goes from ‘oh okay’ to ‘OH OKAY’
> 
> On that note: this chapter comes with one spoken line that could have loose transphobic connotations if looked at from our perspective (not the story's universe). An explanation of this is included in the endnotes. Please note that it is not my intention to offend anyone. If I need to add more warnings, leave a comment below. Please stay safe.
> 
> There are other heavy trigger warnings for slavery and implied religious extremism.

The passage at sea is willing and they make it home without any loss of human life, besides a single Celt who died two days after they depart from shore. 

He was the weakest of the four, with eyes as wide as a fish’s and clammy white skin. They had to throw him overboard, for obvious reasons. His body was cold and heavy in their arms and it felt as if they were dumping stones into the ocean. Small things that together become too heavy to carry. 

It adds a devastating blow to the already poor morale. The Celts in particular have long since become shadows of their former selves. Sea travel has reduced them to skeletons that mash their teeth together to keep warm. All it takes is one wave to clasp over the side of the boat to drench them, keeping them wet and miserable for the duration of their sail. The weaker they become, the more they stop biting the hand that feeds them, requiring less effort on his part to rein them in. 

Thank goodness too, because the fight in Frederik has died out. There exists only the exhaustion that comes with a raid. It yearns inside of his bones to make a soft place to lay and stay there for a while. The sights and wonders of the western world are just that: sights. They are nothing to behold. He would rather be surrounded by the comfort of a warm hearth. 

He knows his men feel the same. There’s an audible cheer from them when they see their wooden palisade in the distance, accompanied by the garden of rocks that protect their shores. Tiny dots become people, waving at them. Even from a distance, their bright red sails implicate and identify them. 

Frederik has to warn his men back, as the weight of them leaning toward the ship’s bow threatens to topple them over. They pull back on the steerboard to direct their course, relying on the waves to push them up and onto the beach.

They hug the coastline, eventually reaching waters that are shallow enough to beach the boat on. It’s the first time in days that their legs touch soil, and seasons since the soil was theirs. No more sleeping in bags, braving the cold, damp conditions of the sea! The men put down their oars and pull the boat inland, leaving the prisoners to be surrounded and sorted by the karls: farmers, craftsmen, fishermen, merchants, and boat builders that lick their lips at the sight of fresh meat.

Frederik loves the sea but it is not his home. That honour belongs to his village, here in the depression of the mountains and the marshes. The chickens cluck and run as they make their way in, giving way to the younger children who come forward looking for a good story. New mothers greet the adventurers with their babes swaddled in cloth, tiny bundles with rounded, pink noses that poke out. They’re the fruit of the warriors’ farewell, something they left behind.

They are relieved of their burdens: both material and human. Their Celt prisoners become thralls who go to work in the eastern fields, where their contribution can be of use. They are there to live out their days sustained on nothing but fish, the beads of rain, and the raw tinge of infection that comes with defeat, running up the knobs in their spines to the back of their head. The grime that scrapes together from under their nails can not be washed away, nor should it. They leave the boat covered in bruises and cuts, evidence of the force used to bring them here.

Frederik works them hard because he knows how their men play there. Had it been him found at the other end of a sword, kneeling, they would hang him. He’s under no obligation to show them mercy. If anything, he’s being kinder than they are. They should be thanking him.

Connor is in the group of men sent to the fields. They lock eyes one more time, when Frederik is overseeing their placement, and his eyes are starved of any respect. His pupils are two glints of bone-coal that cut Frederik’s skin as they rake over his body. He might look more intimidating if he was still wearing his paint, but one of Frederik’s first demands was that the group be scrubbed and splashed with water until the blue smears were gone. They don’t belong to the west anymore, so it makes no sense that they are branded as such. 

Although he humoured the thought of bringing Connor up to his hall to serve, those plans are abandoned for the time being. Maybe, when he’s been declawed, he could see that head of hair by his side. It’s not just that he’s a pretty thing to look at, but also his spirit. It’s something to dream about now and deal with later. The most immediate of his concerns involve a night’s rest with something warm and heavy to weigh his stomach down with. 

Once the thralls have relieved him of his weapons and shield, he walks the path up the slope of the mountains, up to the mead hall where he’s made his quarters. It overlooks the city like a bird on a wooden perch, which unfortunately makes it a climb to get to. 

The interior is dark, and none of the weed wicks are lit. In the air, there’s a faint prick of ash. He walks to the back, where his bed-closet is. The furs it’s lined with is dry to the touch and must have been replaced in his absence. He tugs the wool bed cover over his stomach, rearranging his body into the small space so that he can sleep with his back to the wall. His father’s shield hangs over his head, protecting him as he shuts his eyes and sinks into the knowledge that he is safe, and home at last.

That first night of rest passes too quickly for his liking. In no time whatsoever, he’s back to a normal routine, already making preparations to clear the northern forest for lumber to build more ships with. He oversees the start of what will be their fourth and final longhouse. His brother’s wife gives birth to her first child, a baby girl they call Helga. He forgets about the red-haired boy and the scar Frederik left on his face, left to work his fingers to the bone.

Months pass and it becomes colder. In the rare instances where he walks down to the fields he sees the harvest and the thralls, skinny enough that their rib cages show through. The ground is beginning to harden and require more toil to produce. Their skimpy garments don’t provide much protection from the inhospitable conditions that meet those who stay out longer than a few hours. Their fingers, blistered and cut, and turning white.

He doesn’t think much of the fate that befalls the Celts, not when his own people are to be looked after first. And yet, as is the way of things, his decisions come back to haunt him later.

He’s taking a tally of the contents in his strongbox when the first notion of trouble is brought to his attention. A farmhand enters the war room, eyeing the stocked shelves. Frederik puts down the rabbit pelts he has in hand, the fur matted and rough.

“Yes?”

The farmhand swallows. “There’s been a stir down in the east fields. Two thralls had to be pulled apart.”

“A revolt?”

“No, an attempted murder.”

Frederik squares his attention on him. “Where are they now?” He collects his leather strips in hand, placing them neatly back where he found them.

“We are holding them apart. Would you like to see them and pass judgement yourself?”

“I would.”

The call beckons him to the centre of the mead hall. The chairs are tucked into two long benches topped with sheepskin, beside the fire pit running lengthwise toward the only entrance. Not to his surprise, one of the two Celts they have brought before him is Connor. However, what he doesn’t expect to see are the cuts and bruises up and down his face. His bottom lip is split and there are thin cuts made by his lower abdomen. He looks as though he’s in constant pain when he moves.

The other slave has an open wound near his knuckles, and the skin there is bright red. It looks like he’s just pummeled an animal to death with his bare hands, though there’s no blood on them to prove it. He’s quite a few years older than Connor and has the pale scars to prove it. Age doesn’t tame him into a new animal; he’s just as toothy, if not more because of how close he came to finishing the job. A farmhand has to stand in between the two to keep him from lunging at Connor.

Frederik waits until the situation is under control to begin.

“What is the problem?”

The farmer steps forward. “These two were found fighting behind the pit house. One of them had made a weapon.” He presents it in one, unfolded hand. It’s tiny and thin but the end is a dark rusted colour, indicating its use.

Frederik narrows his eyes. “Who instigated the fight?”

“That, we don’t know.”

He switches tongue. “Then I ask you both, why?”

These matters need to be resolved going into the wintery season. He doesn’t require the respect of their thralls, only their obedience. Losing them at a time like this will impact more than just a harvest or ship build. 

“Because ‘e deserves it,” the other slave says. He sounds northern, with a curl to his words that makes it harder to understand him. “If you are the ruler you claim to be, you would kill 'im--“

“I do not take orders from you.” His voice slices through any protest the man could manage. The room plunges into a deep quiet, swaddled in the calm ambience of the rain outside.

Connor looks worse for wear. He’s as white as the foam that washes up on their beaches and along with his tattered clothes and sunken eyes, it makes him look sickly. He’s leaning forward, one arm circling his waist. Both of his cheeks are sucked in and if he squints, Frederik can see the imprint of teeth from the side of his face.

“What ails you so that you cannot stand to full height in my presence?” he asks of Connor. It doesn’t look like fever. His eyes are not cloudy and he’s keeping his food down.

The other slave snarls. The shape of his face distorts, becoming wolf-like.

“Quiet!” Frederik’s voice is a thunderclap. It shocks both of the thralls into standing up straight, though Connor resumes his wounded stance in no time whatsoever. 

Whatever is wrong with Connor, he’s risking death to keep his lips closed. However, that may just be the effect of the other man’s spits and what Frederik can only imagine are threats of death that extend far beyond the afterlife.

“Bring him here,” Frederik says to the farmer, pointing at Connor.

Connor puts up no resistance as he’s dragged forward. He’s pushed close to Frederik, almost flat to his chest.

“Connor,” he starts, with a low voice, “why does this man want you dead?”

Before anything else, he can hear the chains rattle from behind him. His patience is wearing thin. He stands up, using the window of space above Connor’s shoulder to look down at his audience.

“Take that thrall out back and shut him up,” he says, in Norse.

He hears a loud whack and a cry as the slave is dragged away.

Connor continues to look like a windswept reed. Frederik has other things to do than stand here, waiting for Connor’s courage to bud. There’s a finite list of things that Connor could be responsible for. It’s not like he would have killed a man and managed to cover it up, all for but one person to find out. 

Whatever this is, it is balancing on the precipice of his honour. It makes him a bit harder to crack.. But that’s all right. No one talks unless they are threatened with death. It’s the one thing that’s better than mead at revealing the truth.

“Tell me what is wrong with you or I will leave you out with him to finish the job.” 

Connor’s face burns. Warrior pride is one thing but to be sent to die in a cold, damp room with one of your own kind bears no good name to your cause. That much, Frederik is sure of.

Frederik is just about his raise his hand when Connor finds his voice. His hands are clenched together, draining them of colour.

“I bleed,” he says. He drops the words into Frederik’s lap, like he has any idea what that means.

Unfortunately for him, he doesn’t, and Connor doesn’t look ready to elaborate. Frederik’s not a vulture, he’s not going to waste his precious time picking at the remains of what Connor’s decided to throw him because he thinks it’s cute.

“Why would that be a crime in the eyes of a Celt?”

“Because men ‘re not supposed to bleed.”

Frederik tilts his head to the side, trying to find out what makes this boy cower in his presence when he once stood so tall. Men bleed, it’s what makes them human. Wearing blood like it’s a coat of armour, there’s no better feeling. It’s hot and sticky, a wreath of their accomplishments they can wear around their neck and torso. By his knowledge, the Celts don’t have as different a definition of blood than them. 

“Men don’t bleed? What, are you a woman now?”

It’s supposed to be a whack over the side of the head to help Connor get to the point. The reaction he gets is the opposite of what was intended: Connor goes cold and his eyes clamp shut. Frederik needs a second to collect himself in the face of this weird aversion.

A tiny voice in the back of his head shouts something indiscrete, growing louder the more he tries to ignore it. As he takes into account the shame that blots Connor’s face, there’s a new truth there to unwrap. It’s not a pleasant feeling--more like picking at an old scab. It takes him back years, to the days of mud and playing with carved wood swords, eager to come inside and hear his mother’s stories about the blood-born around the fire with the other children.

It’s a tall-tale story. It’s not true. But the more he looks at Connor’s face the more he’s inclined to believe it. 

Before Connor can think twice about running away, Frederik cups his ass with his hand. Connor, resigned to his fate, hangs his head instead of trying to fight his way out. Frederik’s fingers dip lower, testing the cloth. He presses hard enough to feel the skin underneath.

His finger comes away with a brownish-red colour on the tip. Frederik rubs it together with his thumb. The pigment is faint, but there.

Connor can’t even look at him. On the contrary, Frederik can’t look anywhere but him.

They were a hair away from finding him dead behind the storage hut. All of those months as a slave, the weeks on boat--Connor has been bleeding this entire time. He can’t believe it; the clever thing.

His head snaps in the direction of the farmer. “Tell the thralls to bring me stuffing rags and cotton. Leave the boy here.”

Leaving Connor behind in the mead hall, Frederik starts walking; to where, he’s not sure. His insides are burning and it feels like smoke spouts out of his nose when he breathes. He sees one of the handlers by the door, his face smudged with earth. It makes the fire burn brighter.

“Where did you put the other one?”

“Just outside, by the stables. Do you need to speak with him?”

He doesn’t _ need _ to, but he has questions. “Yes.”

The wind is picking up outside, taking week reeds flying and extracting the hay from their tunics and beds. The patter of rain grows in strength, a curtain of it falling on the land and reaching deep into the soil. 

He finds the other slave drenched by the back corner, hunched over himself. His face shows the battering he took.

Frederik stretches his shoulders back. He switches tongue. “I only want to know why.”

The slave glares at him from under a mop of wet hair. “He ne’er should ‘ave been born.”

“Because he bleeds?”

The slave’s face stretches wide. “He told you? ‘e’s a coward.”

“I asked him to. I cannot see why that would justify a murder.”

“If you knew what 'e was, you would kill 'im too.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” the slave challenges. 

“Our stories are the same as yours. My mother was so fond of describing the men from the Western shore who were as strong as women, and so they could carry children. But they were just stories. I never believed they were true, because I had never seen a man bleed.”

The thrall is anchored to the ground and has no choice but to dip his head back as Frederik walks closer. He continues, “I would think he’s just a tribute from the gods, but you speak otherwise.”

“They don’t deserve to live. None o’ them.”

“You fought by his side like a brother but because he bleeds, you’ll be the one to smash a stone over his head?”

“He’d thank me for it, ask him.”

“I doubt that.”

“So now that he’s good and useful to you, you’ll just have at him? Spawn barbarians more cruel and brutish than you are? I laugh.”

Frederik leans in. “I don’t fear the wrath of your God. You should fear what I’m going to do to you, for incurring my anger.”

The slave keeps his eyes thin. “You’ll regret it.”

He has half a mind to finish the job himself, but a slave like him is not worth the effort. He has another man take his place, leaving his hands empty and his mind full.

All those years, he told his mother’s stories, never believing them to be true. They were fun to spin and stretch for young minds. If it could happen, he would know, surely?

He reenters the mead hall, walking around the tables to reach the back. He has silken robes and furs for Connor to burrow into, probably a lot warmer than the straw that would be used as bedding in the pit houses the slaves live in. His mind jumps to how he can make the room more habitable for him.

He looks to the left, where his box-bed is, though nobody is behind the curtain. A few nest-making materials sit on the floor, undisturbed. Frederik can see wool and cloth, soft as can be. 

He scours the room, checking the barrels and shelves. There's a brief moment of panic before he remembers there's one more place to look. The same hiding spot a child would pick; the best a malnourished slave could come up with. 

Frederik ducks his head under one of the long tables is rewarded with the sight of red hair. 

“Are you ashamed?” Frederik asks. His voice holds too much power here; it reverberates as if the room was cleared of furniture and he was alone. “There is nothing to be ashamed of. That man was a fool to think you were any less than him.”

Connor moves one of his hands down from his shoulder, splayed out on top of his ribs. He says nothing.

Frederik kneels before him, pressing one hand flat to the cool floor. “I avenged your honour for you. You mustn’t worry about seeing him again.”

That provokes a reaction. “You killed him?” Connor bristles, wisps of hair curling around his ear. “How could you?”

Frederik thought he would be pleased. He may have come from the same land but that man was Connor’s enemy. He would see him dead, no matter the price to pay.

His mouth firms. “He was a brute that disrespected me and my Hold. Death was becoming of him.”

“Why save me?” Connor’s eyes harden back into coal. “Because a’hm useful to you? Why not let me die in the fields as I deserve?”

Frederik smooths his hair down. “You have been blessed with a gift. I would be a fool if I let you die now.”

Connor’s bottom lip pulls away, like a cat ready to lunge and sink its teeth into his wrist. Frederik is not moved by the display; all of the signs point to how timid this boy is. His hair tangles around Frederik’s fingers, springing into coils when it pulls away. It’s grown in length, now that Connor has gone without any personal grooming for the last while. It’s a stark contrast to his shaved face, something all the Celts here suffer as a token of their defeat.

“Come,” Frederik stands up, “up in the closet. It will do you good.”

“No thanks,” Connor sneers. “I wouldn’t want to get your sheets dirty.”

“Connor.”

“I have no interest in listening to a brute like you. Leave me alone.”

Frederik keeps his voice level. “Then you will sleep on the floor until you are grateful for what I’m offering you.”

“You’ll be doing me a favour.”

Frederik can’t help it—it feels like even the smallest of things light up his temper. His initial reaction is to take what he wants and pull Connor out from under there, but he knows the second his back is turned Connor will return. 

While Connor stews, Frederik shucks the animal pelts off the backs of the chairs where they are dying out and stashes them under his bed’s nook. Connor remains pressed to the dirt, watching the room become colder and darker around him. The intensity of the rain outside bangs on the roof like a drum. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m aware that one line in the story could come with transphobic associations, this line being “because men are not supposed to bleed” (referencing menstruation). This line is not intended to be looked at from the lens of presentism. It is spoken in the context of a universe where one group, acting on their religion, see men that are able to bear children as lesser. Connor has been told to be ashamed of his biology, and these insecurities provoke the spoken line. Another Celt tries to kill him when he finds out. Frederik makes clear this behaviour is not tolerated.
> 
> Also I must acknowledge the partial historical accuracy. Most viking longhouses did not include a separate room and were a single unit. Mead halls were single-room buildings where the town would gather to feast, occasionally built in the honour of a king or jarl. For the purpose of this story, Freddie has a semi-separate room. You can get an idea of the mead hall [here](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/83/3f/3f/833f3ffd89bbacad3835b1114126da84.jpg):


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took....way too long to write. I got fed up in the editing process so there might be some errors. Let me know if you spot any!

The next morning, Frederik wakes up with aching legs and the muscles in his neck pulled taut. He’s surprised that they’re the only things wrong with him after a night spent in an unlocked closet with a freed Celt on the other side of the room. It was meant to be an invitation for Connor to join him if he wanted but the likelier outcome was always Connor sneaking up on him in the night and removing his head from his body with something he found lying around on the floor.

Not likely enough, it seems. Other than the two red marks on his wrists--from what, he has no clue--he is fine. He thought that would be reassuring to see.

He dips his hands into the basin next to the bed closet and dampens his face, pushing his curls out of his vision so it doesn’t have two red curtains on the side. While he’s at it, he combs his beard with two fingers, trying to make himself look presentable for the company he’s about to have.

He’s unsteady from sleep when he turns to the larger component of the mead hall and the drawer space that holds his garments. The foreign presence in the room sobers him up; it makes him feel like he’s entering the lair of a predator. He’s careful to tread lightly on his feet, as to not wake him.

Tunic in hand, he kneels down to the ground just to check for the head of red hair, scared that it was his imagination playing tricks on him again. The bright bounce of colour is there to assuage those worries. It’s so out of place, nothing like the earthy tones of the dirt floor and the beams of wood holding the roof above their heads. Rare and beautiful, he wants to touch it.

Connor’s chest slowly rises and falls. It’s as if he’s sleeping. But Frederik sees those green eyes staring at him from the dark, sizing him up. He’s a lot smaller when he’s under there, though not in the least bit looking like some domesticated animal. If Frederik stuck his finger under there it would probably be bit.

Frederik stands up. “You won’t be able to stay there, my dear,” he calls out. “I am hosting company tonight. You would be wise to move to the closet.”

For a second, it’s quiet. It goes on long enough to make Frederik think he hallucinated seeing both eyes open. Yet, Connor doesn’t pass up on the chance to snap back, however small.

“You would be wise to leave me alone.”

Frederik pulls his tunic over his head. “Are you sure? You will be kicked and spat at. You’re already a bloody mess, why make it any worse for yourself?”

Connor does not answer. Frederik crouches to his level once again.

“There are furs and stuffing rags there for you to use. Go, make yourself comfortable.”

“You expect someone like myself to share your chambers?”

“But they’re not chambers.” Frederik shakes his head. “We’ll have to work on your modesty.”

“Forget it. I would rather sleep outside in the pit houses than indulge you.”

Frederik wipes the sleep crust out of his eyes. It’s too early in the morning to be picking fights; he’s having enough trouble as is keeping his feet in focus, let alone dealing with Connor.

“Fine. But you might change your mind when the snow begins to stick to the ground. I might be less forgiving then.”

Connor says something under his breath, his words muddied by his native accent and the low volume he speaks it with. Frederik doesn’t know what he means but is already too frustrated with the Celt to give him the satisfaction of asking for an explanation. 

He finishes dresses himself, tugging on warmer layers until he’s twice his normal size. Since Connor is being a pain, he’s content to go to the communal fire pit alone to eat and then bring back the remains for him to pick at. Which is exactly what he does. Connor doesn’t react later, when the plate is placed on the floor beside him as if Frederik is feeding one of the hounds.

Frederik can’t supervise him all day--not that he’d want to. He has to reorganize the lower castes now that they’re out two thralls. He has no intention of making Connor work; at least not in the field like he used to. Around the mead hall, maybe. Bringing in and cooking food for banquets is a relatively simple job, one that’s not going to put him in more pain than he already is. It’s hopeful thinking that’s just that: hopeful. Connor won’t be working in the interests of the community anytime soon.

He enlists the help of his younger sister, Amalie, to look after him while he’s busy. Although she’s not fluent in Gaelic--not by any measure--she has a grasp on simple words and phrases. She’s probably more of a use to Connor right now than he is, so he’s happy with the compromise. It gives him one less thing to worry about, even if it doesn’t feel that way once he’s out of the hall and out in the fields, counting their livestock and making arrangements for winter storage. It’s remarkably harder to count when he’s still thinking about the small fight they had that morning. 

One of the farmhands slaughters a horse for the celebrations that evening and Frederik is there in the longhouse as they’re cleaning and preparing it. Over the noise of babies crying and their goats bleating in the far corner, the women hum low pagan songs to themselves, ones they’ve all been reared with. It eases the tension gnawing away at Frederik’s bones, helping him relax his shoulders and sway with the other bodies in the room.

The night is rowdy and long. The festivities have moved to the mead hall with the help of the kind volunteers who hoisted up the slabs and instruments on their backs, using the muscles they won from years of training. The smell of pork and smoke fills the air, puffed out in billowing clouds that float up through the smokehole. 

Frederik barely has a second to check in on Connor before he’s swept up in the festivities. The boy is trampled when the first few men arrive, which succeeds at getting him out from under the table. Connor crawls into the farthest corner, closest to the door. Frederik takes no joy in seeing him in such a sorry state. He’s clearly humiliated and in pain. But there’s nothing Frederik can do. Connor refuses the privacy of the closet, even though it’s tucked into the corner of the hall and behind a wall that will keep him out of sight. The most Frederik can do is chase away the men that try to prod at him to get a reaction. Connor won’t have to entertain them.

Frederik gives him his protection and in return, Connor disappears half-way into the night. Frederik is too busy passing the drinking horn to notice. Maybe he had hopes that Connor had swallowed his pride and in turn, salvaged what’s left of his dignity. 

He simply wasn’t paying it much thought, so when Svend shoulders his way into the room, gleaming with rain and with straw sticking to the toe of his boot, he doesn’t know what all of the fuss is about.

“I found something for you, Frederik!”

Connor is shoved in, soaking wet and panting. The men around him audibly cheer.

Panic flashes in Frederik. Bright red and hot. He jumps to his feet, banging his knee on the table with enough urgency to make his ears ring. The pain is secondary, however.

“Where did you find him?”

“At the bottom of the hill. Probably couldn’t see well enough in the dark and went for a tumble.”

It’s an understatement. Connor’s knees and elbows have a few added cuts that need attending to. The right side of his face is smeared with mud and debris. It spikes his hair up, though it’s not a flattering look on him.

Frederik sighs. He doesn’t have the time tonight to take care of this. Instead, he pulls aside a stool from the supply shelves by the strongboxes and sets Connor up on the corner furthest from the door. Connor doesn’t have the words to spare anymore, pressing his cheek up on the wall as he closes his eyes. Finally, he slows down.

Frederik stops drinking after that, choosing to watch Connor like a mother would her newborn. Connor’s not particularly interesting thereafter but he reeks of discomfort and if he was allowed, Frederik would be there pressing a damp cloth to his scrapes to ease the sting. But this is not his fight. Connor won’t thank him--he won’t want him. His last show of mercy that night is to not make a scene in front of a live audience, leaving Connor to lick his wounds.

The inevitable headache is there the next day, with a pain in between his eyes that makes him wince when he goes to stand up. It fouls his mood and sharpens his tongue into a blade. Connor tries a repeat performance the next day and gets the iron.

It takes a single quip to blow Frederik’s temper into an all-out flame. Frederik stretches his arms out, grabbing Connor by the collar of his tunic and pulling him out from under the table. Connor lets out a feeble cry when his elbow twists in the wrong direction, both of his legs sprawled out behind him.

“Get up,” Frederik barks. He releases Connor’s hand, watching it smack the bare floor after no attempt on Connor’s behalf to pick it back up.

Connor is reduced to his bare, animalistic state. If not for Frederik standing in the way, he might have crawled back under on all fours.

The left side of Frederik’s mouth curls. “Look at you, covered with dirt like a ship rat.” He crouches down. Connor’s face is always so expressive and at the moment it does nothing to hide his contempt. “What did you think you were doing last night? Where did you think you would go? 

“Anywhere, if it means I’m not trapped here.”

“I showed you mercy. You would be dead in that field if I didn’t step in! Since you’ve taken advantage of my kindness _ twice _ now I will do as you ask and show you none. Get up.”

Connor takes his time on the steps, warily looking over the ledge that separates them from the dip in the hills that folds into the valley; the place where he fell yesterday. Frederik can only imagine what happened. Connor’s not too badly injured, so he must have lost his balance and rolled his way down the hill. It’s a miracle that he didn’t dislocate something and add to the slew of Frederik’s problems--though it would probably make him a lot easier to deal with.

Frederik hastens him down to the longhouse on the second highest peak in the village. It’s relatively empty inside because the families are out working but the sight of it excites Connor enough to blow his eyes out into a swirl of colours and shapes. While Connor’s poking around, Frederik makes sure that everything is in place. There’s a tub of steaming water in the foyer, away from the animals and cooking utensils and exactly as he requested. 

Frederik sees Connor looking at the tub. “I would take you down to the river, but I’m not that cruel.”

“There are people everywhere,” Connor says. “I prefer the river.”

“No one will bother you. The water is warm, look.” He takes Connor’s hand without asking and pushes the tips of his fingers under the surface. 

Connor takes his hand back. “What about you?”

“I bathe tomorrow with the rest of the village. But I refuse to have you wait that long. Go strip; it won’t stay warm for much longer.”

He doesn’t stick around to watch, knowing it would violate the sliver of trust that exists between them. Just outside the longhouse doors, he meets with one of the village’s seamstresses, who has the old pair of garments he asked of her yesterday. They look like they’ll be too big for Connor’s chicken bones for arms and legs. However, Frederik is confident that Connor will grow into them. 

The material is worn and rough to the touch. It won’t feel or look nice on Connor’s feeble body, though Frederik isn’t going to go through the effort of having new clothes skinned for him when Connor’s bleeding like a sow struck with an arrow.

He re-enters the room after a brief conversation. Connor is lazing in the tub, one arm draped over the side. His hand sways. 

At the sound of Frederik’s boots, the peace ends. Connor looks over his shoulder, eyes slanted. “Do you always walk in on people like this?”

Frederik can’t hold back the smile that threatens to split his face in two. In an effort to compose himself, he clears his throat and tries to straighten his posture. “I’m here with a change in clothes,” he says, lowering his voice to sound more serious. “And I think you’ve lived here long enough to know that privacy is only a privilege. We all share this space.”

Connor drops his head, going back to whatever he was doing. Frederik bides his time, trying to distract himself by inspecting his surroundings. There’s bedding to change and someone will need to sweep the floors tomorrow. They couldn’t go wrong with more firewood to chop either. It becomes easy for those thoughts to overwhelm him. So much to do. Winter will be here soon.

He doesn’t even realize he’s placed the clothes down until Connor speaks up.

“Are you going to make me get those myself?”

“I will, if you don’t stop this. I am not your enemy, Connor.”

“I remember that being a bit different.” Frederik can see his fingers ghost over the scar on his cheek.

The details of their first fight sit dormant in the back of his head. His blood pumping through his body, the adrenaline and energy that powered his wide swings. The audience of men who would do anything if it meant their opponents were left incapable of thought. Connor looked a lot more substantial back then. That and his mastery of the knife were the precursors to his early appeal.

That Connor bears no resemblance to this one. He looks at the boy now and he has no answers or plans to advance. It would be easier if they were back by the moor, up to their knees in the swaying reeds and with blades sharpened by the bones of their enemies in hand. That would leave them evenly matched.

He sees Connor eyeing him, though his shoulders are slumped. Frederik says nothing. He doesn’t trust his tongue not to scrape the wrong thing from his head to put them both on edge. Connor stays on the alert, choosing to fold his knees in and drop his shoulders beneath the surface of the water when Frederik draws close.

“Are you just going to stare?” asks Connor. The water underneath his chin flows in riplets as he speaks.

“You missed a spot,” is Frederik’s reply. He’s not wrong. There’s a splotch of dirt marking Connor’s neck that sticks to him like mud. Frederik wants to drag his hands through it.

Connor sees him look and follows his eyes with his fingers. His right hand emerges from the water and rubs the patch until the water works away the colour.

“Do you feel clean?” Frederik asks.

“Yes.”

“I left a stuffing rag with your new clothes. I assumed you would need it.”

Connor looks over. The seal that sanctioned their conversation breaks at the topic of blood. “Will you leave me to get dressed on my own? I’m not a child.”

“I’ll turn my back.”

The parts of Connor’s face look small. It already feels like he’s slipping through Frederik’s fingers. “You don’t trust me.”

“Why should I?”

It’s not his suspicion in Connor that makes his chest feel like it’s caving in. Maybe he hoped a small, kind gesture would be enough to redeem him in his eyes. He is a fool. 

Those thoughts are worsened by the reappearance of Connor when he turns around, soaking wet and in the clothes that--as predicted--hang from his small frame. The neckline is plastered to his body and the beige colouring on the chest and stomach is almost see-through. His curls slop over one side and obstruct his vision. 

Frederik did mean to do something about them.

Connor does not question Frederik when he leads him back to the hall. He takes his seat at the long table and waits for Frederik to fetch his comb. It’s stored safely in the drawer beside his bed, where he left it. The red dye is beginning to fade and its teeth bear the smell of sea salt. It is one of the few belongings that he brings with him on his conquests. 

He places one hand on Connor’s shoulder, pulling him back. His head of curly red hair shakes, licks of moisture bouncing on the tips. Frederik is brunt, he rakes the comb down one side.

“Ow!” Connor tries to bend forward but is stopped by Frederik’s left hand.

Frederik forces air through his clenched teeth. “Stop it.”

“What are you doing?”

Frederik doesn’t answer him. He continues to straighten out the unruly hair. Connor’s long fingers curl inward as his only form of protest.

Connor’s hair has likely never been combed once and Frederik doesn’t stop until it’s been tamed to his liking, falling as wavy strands on his shoulders and nape. It takes a long time to have Connor look presentable to him and he does all that work knowing that by late afternoon Connor will have undone all of it with his choice in a bed. At least, for now, he won’t be so sickly looking.

The preening has the unwanted effect of replenishing the hatred in Connor’s eyes, though it feels like they would do that on their own, with or without his doing.

Now that Connor’s not bleeding, any excuses for his behaviour are drying up at the source. Somehow, it feels like he’s become sourer now. Frederik can’t get a word in before he’s all over him, picking up on Frederik’s reluctance and hesitance and throwing them at him in the hopes of getting a reaction.

He’s not like the other thralls, who work to gain the respect of their superiors. Connor doesn’t have a dignified bone in his body. He also lacks much of an understanding of their culture. During social gatherings, he coops himself up in the corner spot where he’s made his cot. When Frederik’s inner circle speaks to him, Connor looks the other way. It could be that he’s ignorant, though Frederik likes to believe he’s smarter than they think and is only denying them a reaction as a form of resistance.

It’s not that he expected Connor to transition to their way of life immediately but Frederik is only a man. He’s only capable of so much patience. Since Connor always wakes up before him it’s impossible to get a moment of peace to himself and it’s slowly driving him mad.

Even getting him to eat has its challenges.

“I refuse to touch anything that the other Celts do not. I am every part loyal to them.”

Frederik places both wooden plates down on the table with a sigh. Connor was a lot more agreeable when he was fresh out of the bath. He’s back on the floor today and Frederik can’t follow his train of thought. It’s something about the food he brought.

He tries to answer calmly, hoping it will deescalate the situation. “I hope not on that last part. Your brethren were all too happy to kill you.”

“Better to die at their hands than live with you.”

“Is that so? I can arrange your death.”

“You’d never do it. Isn’t that why you saved me? To have a nice, warm body to fuck into and seed?”

Frederik drops the pointed knife he has in his hand. He’s sure he misinterpreted at least one of the words in the sentence but the effect is the same. Connor knows that he’s unnerved him, if the smirk is any indication.

Frederik’s words wobble in place when he tries to respond. It neuters any threat. “I saved you because you don’t deserve to die. Don’t make me regret that decision.”

“Regardless,” Connor turns away. “I won’t eat it. Feed it to the dogs.”

“If you’re so content with making your life miserable, then so be it. Have your fish.”

Frederik picks up the tail of the fish on his plate. It’s so small that it could barely feed a child, though it’s better pickings than the thralls would get. He tosses it to the ground where Connor sits. Connor inches back to avoid having it land on his lap and leave him stinking of it; he probably thought Frederik was trying to hit him.

Connor swallows, sizing up the meal. It’s probably the least desirable item on the plate and that’s without accounting for the dirt it’s picked up on the floor. Frederik can see his resolve waver then. If Connor wanted, he could be all over him like a lapdog. It would reward him handsomely. 

Frederik respects that he’s loyal to his beliefs, even when it turns his skin inside-out. It’s a warrior’s defeat, one that not many would have the guts to go through with it when the promise of a better life sits opposite them, steaming and moist with flavour.

They get their first snow not long after. The earth is warm and it melts a day later but it’s the principle of the change in weather that sends the village flocking. It’s amusing to see the young children bundled up in anticipation of the cold. They come to his doorstep in small packs of two to three, asking for blankets or boxes for storage, courtesy of their parents. He’s all too happy to give it to them, though he cautions the children that it will take some time to scavenge for the materials on the shelves and inside the chests where he keeps them.

While he’s busy, they bug Connor. He can hear their squeals of joy as they try to make him talk back to them, even if they have no way of understanding him. He shares their enthusiasm, though Connor probably doesn’t see it that way. 

Connor’s face is washed out when he gets back. The children are half his size but have twice the personality and they surround him from every angle. He connects eyes with Frederik and understanding passes between them.

Frederik shoos them away. He places the box and its accompanying pieces in the biggest child’s arms, who’s no older than ten.

“Take this right to your parents. Hurry on, now.” He stands beside Connor in an act of solidarity. The children bend in his presence, closing their mouths for the first time in the visit.

Connor waits until the children leave to ask, “what were they saying about me?”

“The same things children always say. They were asking you what you were doing, why you’re here. You’re an interesting figure to them.”

Connor tucks his chin in. “Seems that I’m an interesting figure to everyone you know. I hate being out there and seeing them stare and talk about me.”

“You don’t hate them. You just hate that you can’t talk to them.” Frederik touches Connor’s shoulder with his hand. “Maybe you could, if you learned Norse.”

Connor steps away, maintaining the barrier of distance between them. “Why should I learn Norse when you speak Gaelic?” He doesn’t place much emphasis on his words but there’s a tension in the undercurrent that betrays his frustration.

“What happens when I leave? I won’t be here forever. Is it your plan to hide in here whenever the community gets together?”

Connor doesn’t have an answer for him. He rests his argument on another node. “Why do you speak Gaelic?” he says, without pausing. The volume barely crests a murmur.

Frederik gives himself a second to answer Connor. “My mother and father were traders. When I was young, they passed down the languages they learned overseas to me.”

“Traders? But you’re a king here.”

“Not a king, a jarl. My parents became rich as a result of their work, both in fortune and land. It elevated me in status, so when our previous jarl was unable to continue his service, I took charge.”

Connor watches the door. He pulls the furs around him closer to his body, staring at something Frederik is unable to see.

Frederik hums to himself, bringing the courage together to step closer. He keeps his wits about him, knowing Connor’s got about the same measure of discipline as a rabid dog they poke sticks at. He can’t help himself, Connor is the tide that pulls him in closer. He wants to share that warmth; sunbathe in it.

Connor’s hair dangles in front of his nose, close enough to touch. He knows that Connor sees him looking. It’s another one of those moments where a casual understanding of their predicament brings them together keeps them both civil. 

But then Frederik keeps talking. He ruins it.

“Maybe I might change your name while you’re here.”

He hammers the nail down before Connor has straightened it. He’s crooked. It’s too early to be making jokes, he should know better.

Connor reacts accordingly. He turns his side to the side, depriving him of the face Frederik wants to keep looking at.

“You will not.”

“Maybe Kåre, ‘the one with the curly hair.’”

“I hate it."

“It would help you fit in. Isn’t that what you want?”

He blinks and Connor is in his face, teeth bared. “Maybe I don’t want to fit in. Maybe I just want to be alone.” He talks so fast that his speech slurs. Frederik has to arrange the words in his head, shaving the incomprehensible edge away.

By then, Connor is back in his corner in his self-imposed exile. Frederik clamps down on the urge to go after him and continue the conversation. He may speak the same language as Connor, but that’s meaningless if he can’t say five words without making Connor hate him all over again. It’s better to just cut his losses and leave him alone.

Hate feels like a very strong word a few days later.

There’s a hunting party that wants to travel north to look for more finite food sources. His trackers believe that the red deer will cross the ice when it forms, granting them more resources to take from. Frederik agrees to come with them to scout. He’s not worried about coming into conflict with other tribes and communities. His main concern is spreading themselves out too thin or walking into trouble. However, it’s something they have to do sooner than later. Constant expansion is the only way to keep up with their growing numbers.

They give him a brief rundown of the area and he excuses himself to find his sheepskin mittens and his wool jacket. When he gets to the mead hall, he finds Connor bundled up in his robes, dozing off. He’s made up a tiny nest of soft objects that Frederik has given him throughout his stay and didn’t have the heart to take away. It looks like a comfortable place to stay, though the skin on Connor’s face is stretched. He’s like a cat, always on the alert, ready to jump if danger presents itself in the form of his captor.

Frederik doesn’t want to disturb him but he needs the layers on his body if he has any hope of joining the others in a reasonable time. He touches Connor’s knee with his boot, then escalates to rubbing his shoulder to wake him. Connor has to blink the sleep out of his eyes before he can focus on Frederik. Frederik can see the moment he recognizes him: the colour in his eyes dull and his lips firm.

“What.”

“I need this.” He tugs at the loose furs in the jacket. A few come free.

“Why?”

“I’m riding out beyond our borders. Give it to me.”

A twinkle enters Connor’s eyes. “To where?”

“Somewhere north. Somewhere cold. I need my jacket.”

Connor keeps his eye on him for a minute, if only to make it clear that he’s making the choice to give Frederik his jacket back of his own volition. Frederik handles it with care, afraid to touch Connor more than he already has.

Without the jacket, Connor looks a lot smaller. Remove the tunic he’s wearing and Frederik could probably spot and count each individual rib. If he could force more food into him, he would. Connor just barely hangs on now, with the small increments he allows himself to enjoy. To say it makes Frederik nervous would be an understatement.

“I’ll bring you back a slab if we catch anything,” Frederik promises on his way out the door. He keeps his voice low so on the circumstance that Connor doesn’t hear him the first time, he can pretend it never left his lips.

But Connor’s words almost overlap his. “No need.”

“If I’m not back by dusk--you know you’re to go to the first longhouse, the one with the moss roof. They know they’re to serve you food.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“But for when you are hungry, they will keep rations there for you.”

Connor just sighs. Without Frederik’s cover, he assumes the same position he was in earlier. Looking a lot colder. Looking a lot lonelier. 

His piteous face is in between Frederik’s eyes when he mounts his horse. He tries shaking his head to get rid of it, to no avail. He’s not quick to blame his impatience on it, though it steadily becomes apparent over the numerous times he checks how much daylight they have left, later in the evening.

He tries slowly easing Connor into their traditions and practices. Religion is objected to in a torrent of fast-spoken words and saliva, so suffice it to say he learns his lesson relatively quickly about springing new topics on Connor.

There do come events where he forgets about that fact and speaks without paying it much thought. It’s the only other time that their communication barrier widens, outside of when there just aren’t words to use.

Frederik is testing the sharpness of the knife as he prepares to skin a rabbit one of the young hunters was successful in trapping. The slow drag makes a high-pitched noise. Connor is watching from a distance in one of the rare instances of him sitting at one of the tables and not on the floor like a child half his age.

Having grown used to this scene except with his youngest brother, Valdemar, Frederik speaks out of instinct. “Do you have anything to bring up at the Thing?” He places the knife on the table, blade and sheath flat to the wood.

Connor cocks his head. “The _ Thing_?”

“Our local assembly. Every freeman has a right to speak.”

It strokes Connor’s curiosity. He leans in with his whole body. “Am I a freeman?”

“Technically.” Frederik tests the weight of his words. “Yes. You can come and participate in the weekly debate, though it might get out of control depending on what you’re asking. It’s not even half of what the others make it up to be; just noise and arguing.”

He prays to the gods that Connor doesn’t take him up on his offer. No one has said much about him taking Connor in as his own and giving him privileges not provided to some of the working men or karls but that might change if Connor inexplicably shows up by his side. Not to mention, it’s a prime opportunity to start a fight if Connor so wishes. Absolute chaos would follow.

Luckily for him, Connor isn’t paying attention to that. “When did I become a freeman?”

It’s a good question, one that Frederik doesn’t necessarily have the answer to. “Likely when I took you in. When we became ætt.”

“What’s that mean?”

Frederik sighs. “When we both live under the same roof. Our connection.”

“Like family?” Connor asks. He can’t hide the bounce to his words that’s indicative of laughter.

“If you want to think of it like that, yes. It’s what will be there long after you’re gone. If you’re free, your children will be free. If you’re not, they will take your place after.”

“Like _comhluadar_.”

Frederik doesn’t know the word, so he can’t authenticate if they’re synonymous. It’s not everyday Connor gives him new words, so he nods and says nothing. 

Connor only puts up a little bit of resistance when it’s time for him to go, which he considers a victory.

Connor wanted to go outside. He could see it in his eyes. The only light in the room comes from the smokehole and Frederik isn’t opening it because there are no fires--why would they, there’s no need. He does the one thing he never did and keeps the company away. But by cocooning Connor in that net, he does more harm than intended. That human connection exists, even with a new language and land.

No wonder Connor keeps coming near him, just for that conversation of the day. It starts with a scathing comment and then changes as Connor tames himself into something Frederik can tolerate. Just to keep him around. But Frederik leaves him, because he thinks that’s what Connor needs. He has a village to look after, it’s not like he can’t find work to do.

He’s used to being nurturing. If someone needs him to look after a child, he’s available. He’s there at gatherings to congratulate the workers that keep their village in function while he’s occupied with raiding. His hands are always empty if they need an extra worker.

Connor doesn’t slot into the above criteria. He’s hard to place and it isn’t that Frederik doesn’t like being with him, it’s that he doesn’t know what to do with him. Connor won’t accept the conditions of defeat when it comes in the form of a soft bed and a plate of hot, diverse food. Frederik doesn’t blame him, not when he’s the victor that has the advantage of being at home. Pride is a powerful thing and now that he thinks about it, the last thing he wants it to tap it out of Connor and leave him empty.

Connor won’t help prepare food or sweep floors; he’s an outsider and the closeness of the people around him only makes him aware of that fact. Going outside before the winter takes hold seems like it’s a good idea. Connor brightens up when he mentions it. Frederik can only hope they run into someone that needs help and then thread the walk into something else. Something to get Connor out of the downturn he’s in. With hands like his, shipbuilding is something Frederik could see him doing. He wouldn’t be the first thrall to work himself into something greater.

Renewed by that sense of purpose, he has a bit more energy to give to Connor that day. The days prior he worked himself to the bone finishing projects and making final decisions on food storage and distribution. There’s always work to be done but today belongs to them.

He’s not afraid of Connor trying to run. There have been numerous opportunities he could’ve taken advantage of if he so pleased. Connor knows as well as he does that there’s nowhere to go. If he keeps running south he might run into the fields, which are populated by men with a lesser tolerance for foreigners than them. 

He walks Connor down the stairs that lead up to the hall, talking about fishing and other musings that the boy couldn’t care less about. Usually, Connor is the one talking. He packs his opinion into the emptiness of the mead hall when there are no bodies. Always talking. Always complaining. Always the one with something to say. Today, however, he’s unusually silent. Frederik can see his eyes examine his immediate surroundings, not listening to a word he says.

They get close to the base of the mountain and independent of anything Frederik does, Connor’s eyes light up. Without saying a word, he bounds forward. Frederik feels his chest constrict. It could be that he’s underestimated Connor yet again. This might be the perfect opportunity for Connor to make a run for it, as stupid as that sounds.

He follows him down the ravine, his boots sliding on the smooth surface of stones and causing him to lose his balance. It takes him a second to recover, almost a second too long. The stroke of red in the greying landscape disappears. Frederik uses his body to anchor himself forward, allowing his determination to do most of the work for him.

Although the land is rough--shaped by the wind and cold weather--once he finds out how to slide forward on his feet it’s almost faster than running. He routes around the closest longhouse, toward the north fields. That’s where he finds Connor. He’s standing at the fence, one hand resting on the top post.

“Connor!” he shouts to get his attention.

But Connor isn’t looking at him, or even listening to him. He’s watching the men work in the fields from the other side of the fence. Once his brothers. While he has on thick furs strapped to his stomach with a belt, they wear the most basic garments that can be sewn to guarantee the won’t catch their death, being outdoors as long as they are. Though none of them look too worse for wear, they certainly aren’t happy with their predicament.

It seems that the view of Connor infuriates them. The one closest to him drops the tool he is carrying and forges a path for himself. The words he shouts at Connor are unfamiliar to Frederik but they make Connor shrink into himself. Not a lot of things provoke the same reaction, which gives him a single hint.

Connor isn’t moving and the man is only coming closer. Frederik does what he has to and places himself between them. The man stops just a few feet away from him with every muscle in his face tensed. He regards Frederik with the same venom. It’s enough to burn holes into him.

The remaining thralls are united in their vindication of Connor. It feels like a hundred pairs of eyes are on them, scrutinizing. Frederik can’t believe he feels outnumbered in his own village. He can only imagine how it feels for Connor. 

It’s scared the warrior approach out of the boy, leaving him stranded in the spot with legs that don’t work. Frederik pushes him forward with both hands, ready to halter the fight before it becomes one. 

The thrall takes a step back when the farmers come out to answer the commotion, but not before he spits on the ground.

“Deamhan,” he says under his breath, loud enough for them to hear. He walks away of his own accord, having slain his opponent. 

Frederik could bring him back and make him regret ever having spoken but after Connor’s reaction to the murder of his assailant, he doubts it will resolve matters. The best he can do is lead him away. Connor won’t argue. It’s up to him to respect the trust that’s been invested in him. 

Connor goes back to his corner. He lays on his stomach and tucks his knees in to make himself as small as possible. He clicks his tongue when Frederik brings him food. Frederik is surprised he’s still there the next morning, not having wasted away when he wasn’t looking.

The snow falls. And it falls again and again, culminating in huge mounds that they must push to clear in the village’s centre. Although it’s come late, the sheer quantity of white blankets their grass in a single night. The forests go dead quiet and the herds move south. The birds stop singing and the contemplative silence that ensues is unsettling to be alone in.

Frederik would love to be a child again, with chores to do but otherwise a lot of freedom to enjoy the snow with. As it is, he’s more preoccupied with keeping the longhouses insulated and warm than he is his own enjoyment. All that is made worse by the pricks of insurrection from the younger men, who have banded together in two big groups that he can only exercise a moderate amount of power over.

It’s not worrisome yet but it’s something to keep in mind. Suffice it to say, he’s so busy running around the community with his hands full that he occasionally forgets about Connor’s existence.

“Your boy came down for dinner the other day,” Amalie tells him. They’re at the shore, checking the boundary for washed up chunks of ice. She makes up for his bad eyesight and thus, comes as an immeasurable value on tasks like these.

It’s too early to tell but in the event that the shore freezes like it did last year, they will need to place more emphasis on honing their hunting techniques. That’s what he tells his men he’s doing when he goes out. There’s some truth behind that explanation but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t here to spend time with his sister.

Frederik drives his spear into the sand. “I’m glad. I’ve been wanting him to eat more.”

Amalie stops behind him, looking out at the waves lapping at the shore. “He’s so small. If you weren’t so calm, I’d be worried.”

“I try. If he wasn’t so stubborn I might have more luck.”

“He’s a Celt. You knew what you were getting into.”

“I didn’t know he would be..._ that_. Would you do anything differently if you were in my position?”

“So he’s not your enemy now. You’re still his. If I was in his position, held captive overseas, I wouldn’t be too inclined to show manners. He has no one, after all.”

“He has me.”

Amalie bumps his shoulder. “_I _ barely see you, and you’re my brother.”

Frederik snorts, using his body to push Amalie forward. She trips on the next step, coming close to planting her face in the sand. He catches her before it can happen, tussing up her hair when she retaliates with a punch to the side. The task at hand forgotten, he drops his spear and chases her up the beach until they’re both red in the face and huffing out air.

It must make for a humorous sight when he returns: Connor looks skeptical of his good mood but relaxes over the duration of Frederik’s stay. In that time, Frederik gets a fire going. It’s more for heat than for light, as the room is currently habitable but not pleasant to stay in. 

It draws Connor out from the dark, who proceeds to hold his hands out in front of the fire. Frederik watches him for a minute before he’s overwhelmed with the urge to keep himself busy. He fishes out another pair of mitts from storage and hands them off before Connor can even realize he’s gone.

“You should come out with me,” Frederik suggests. “It’s not that much colder outside.”

“I go out. Amalie takes me.”

“Oh does she?” He had his suspicions. It’s not like he’s around the hall watching who comes in and out. “Well, I was thinking we could go down to the farms and pick a bull for tonight, before it gets dark. We have to get rid of some so they don’t eat as much fodder in the winter.”

He thought it would be a nice gesture of camaraderie. Connor doesn’t think so; his hands grip his upper arms.

“No.”

Frederik kneels beside him. “They won’t hurt you. If they try, I will be there. I promise you.”

“Don’t make promises,” Connor says, his words squeezing together. “I am not afraid of them. I just don’t want to go out.”

“Is it the cold? You can take my jacket.”

Connor faces away from him. “I don’t want it. Keep it.”

Frederik is about to tilt Connor’s chin with one hand but backs out at the last minute. He inches closer instead, testing to see where Connor has laid the boundary.

“Winter is here. What can I do to make you more comfortable?” It feels as though the fire is burning through Frederik’s layers. “I know it’s not your home but if there’s something I can do to make you feel better, I will do it.”

Connor doesn’t answer right away; he takes the time to think about his words. When he speaks, he looks Frederik in the eyes.

“I don’t want to be here, with these people. But I can’t go home; I can’t go back to the way I was. You will never understand how that feels.”

The emotion that dresses Connor’s words makes it feel as though they’ve been swallowed back for some time, only now having found the courage to jump out. Connor looks a bit braver after saying it, if the peak of his shoulders is any indication.

Frederik takes his time picking out what he has to say. There are so many options and he’s so scared that he might say something he doesn’t mean. It frustrates him more than he will ever admit.

“You’re right. I don’t. But it’s as you said: you can’t go back. You can do whatever it is you please in the village but you have to tell me.” He pauses to collect his thoughts. “You can go and live in one of the longhouses if that helps you settle.”

Connor rubs at the rims of his eyes, blinking twice at him. “Why would you do that, if I’m just supposed to be your prize?” His fingers are sprawled out in his lap, twitching.

“You _ were _ mine but that was before I knew.”

“Stop it,” Connor spits. “I’m not any different because I bleed. If you didn’t know, I would still be out there, working under you as your prisoner.”

Frederik can’t argue, because it’s the truth.

It’s Connor who picks up where he left off. He must see Frederik’s blank face. “I’m grateful to be sheltered inside instead of out there, but I hate that it’s because of something I can’t control.”

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” Frederik says, and it feels empty. He rubs his hands down his side. “Your...gift helped me find you. The more I learned about how you were treated, the more I wanted to change that.”

“It is not a gift.”

“Maybe not to them, but it is to us. Do what you will, consider yourself free. I have no say over how you want to live your life. We will always appreciate the extra help, however.”

It feels like the first, real invitation to join their community. It’s come too late and Frederik’s only made aware of that when the words leave his mouth. 

If they integrate well enough, many thralls work their way into families and positions inside of the village. It’s not an uncommon sight in a community as small as theirs; Connor wouldn’t be the first. He _ would _ be the fastest and likely the most reluctant, on the condition that he accepts it.

The pensive look on Connor’s face is no promise. It makes Frederik feel smaller; smaller than the tiny rodents that scurry in between the walls. 

With no conclusive end to their talk, Frederik opts to walk out and leave it at that. He’s almost one foot out the door when Connor raises his voice.

“Frederik.”

He turns at the door, fixing Connor with a stare.

Connor is standing, legs spread and shoulders squared. He looks ready to rush at him. “Stop walking out on me. I’m coming with you.”

“You don’t have to come because I asked you, that’s what I was getting at.”

“I don’t care what you think, I’m doing this because I want to.” He pushes Frederik aside on the way out, having closed the distance between them in only a few steps.

He will never know where Connor’s energy comes from or how he transforms himself into a completely new person by the end of a sentence. He isn’t going to question it. That doesn’t mean he’s not going to be there when Connor needs it, like when Frederik sees him connect eyes with the thralls in line for stew, a yard away. 

If Frederik can be that quiet comfort beside him, then he’ll take up that role.

There’s a clicking sound coming from the hail outside. Even with the fire they lit, the hall is pitch black. It’s going to be a terrible storm. And it’s so horribly, _ horribly _ cold.

The night draws to a close relatively early, when they’ve run out of things to talk about. Frederik puts out the fire and closes the smokehole, while Connor goes back to his cot where the earth is trodden and flat. This time, his feet drag. Frederik notices how Connor hangs off his every word, so desperate to blow on the flames of their conversations to create a spark for something new. 

He’s started describing the sights of the village to Frederik at the end of the day. What starts as a simple observation of the herds moving away from the high plains begins to mount into huge dumps of information at the end of the day. It’s interesting, seeing his homestead from a different perspective. Things he never paid attention to get described in painstaking detail. It’s oddly beautiful.

In Connor’s words: “There’s always something to look at, especially when you’ve got nothing to do.”

Connor probably sounds a lot more coherent in his native tongue. Some descriptions don’t translate as well as they should but Frederik prides himself on his progress, knowing that he’s coming in with just shy of a novice understanding of Gaelic. Connor can’t say that, though he does say a lot of things.

Frederik swamps himself in warm layers before bed, splashing water onto his face until he feels clean. The door to the bed closet creaks when he opens it but if that’s supposed to be a disincentive, it’s failing. All he can look forward to is sucking in the warmth and holding it inside of his body until he can feel his toes again. The cramped, dark space is a lure that invites him inside, ready to clamp the door shut and trap him.

It takes no time whatsoever to get comfortable but a lot longer to fall asleep. That’s because he can hear the sound of bare feet dragging on the floor. At first, he thinks he’s going crazy. It’s so light that the beat of a mosquito’s wings is probably louder. When he tries listening it’s easy to pick out and it’s _incessant_. He can’t block it out even when he tries.

“Connor,” he raises his voice, “you can sleep on the floor or in the closet, but you do not pace in circles keeping me awake.”

The sound of feet stops for a second, then gets louder. When he opens his eyes, Connor is standing in front of the closet door, looking down. Frederik realizes that the clicking noise he was hearing came from Connor’s teeth, not the hail.

“Frederik.”

He didn’t remember opening the closet. “Connor, what do you--”

“I can’t sleep there. It’s too cold.”

Frederik pushes himself up using one hand. “Let me get you a blanket, then.”

Connor’s eyes slot down. He looks uncomfortable.

“I don’t want to sleep there.” Frederik doesn’t react, so he continues. “Wind blows up from underneath. It makes my chest feel,” he searches for words, “heavy. And I always feel dirty.”

“That was your choice.”

“It was my choice. And now I’m asking if I can sleep here.”

The entire room goes quiet. He’s not sure if he heard Connor wrong. Words are tricky things, after all. 

“Are you sure? It’s going to be cramped.”

“Did you not want me to sleep here earlier?” Connor’s forehead creases. “Am I still allowed?”

Frederik closes his eyes. When he opens them, Connor remains there. The show of trust is as solid as the man in front of him.

“Wash your face and hands first,” he says, without thinking. 

Connor looks around for a second before his eyes stop on the basin. He dips his fingers in. Delicate. Careful. The tips are just barely damp when he drags them down his face, pushing away stray hairs that stick to his forehead and jaw. Once he gathers the confidence, the next splash is more of a plunge. It drenches Connor down to his shoulders, sticking his tunic to his skin.

Connor slows down when it’s time to climb inside. It’s a tight fit, unfamiliar but not unknown to Frederik. He makes as much room for Connor as he can, pressing up on the side closest to the wall to absorb any of the cold leaking in through the cracks.

They’re sandwiched in there, blocked out from the outside world when the door is closed and they’re an amalgamation of legs and arms and two heads. Frederik falls asleep before Connor, so he can’t say whether or not the warmth of the closet helps the other man get to sleep. The only thing he can say with confidence is that he wakes up well-rested, with Connor curled into his side and sleeping in after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not too many warnings on this chapter, beyond talk of menstruation and the "exile" if you will of Connor from his previous community by one of its members. Connor ends up sharing a bed with Frederik later in the chapter in an act of what he calls free will. Although it's his decision you can read into it being out of necessity because he's freezing and he sees it as an option to keep warm. However, Frederik does give him alternatives and there's no verbal coercion coming from him.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I....can't believe I got this chapter done. Only six months late, eh? I've had a rough time trying to proofread this, so you might stumble onto an error or two.   
This one's a weird one but I figured it was necessary worldbuilding. We gotta go all out folks. Nevermind the blatant historical inaccuracy!

They walk down the length of the beach, smelling the dune grass and rosehips, feeling the skirts of sand get spat into their boots. Frederik’s feet drag but Connor picks his up and runs, chasing the tide. He lets himself get close, then takes a step back when the waves splash in, gurgling on seafoam.

Now that he’s no longer working himself to death in the fields, Connor’s skin has paled. The globs of discoloured red skin are gone, taking with them the many freckles that would spot his shoulders and elbows. It’s not the only thing that’s changed about him: now that he’s eating properly, he better resembles the warrior that Frederik fought, all those months ago. 

You wouldn’t think it, watching him scamper around. It’s the first time in a couple of days that they’ve been able to get out. He’s been whining about wanting to leave the longhouses to stretch his legs for the entire duration of them being housebound from rain. In that time, Freddie was able to teach him the basic rules of a few board games, which Connor grew bored of in no time whatsoever. Not because they weren’t of interest to him, but because he beats Frederik in almost every match they played. His mastery of the game should not come as a surprise to Frederik, but it plants a few ideas in his head.

The damp conditions have allowed weeds and flowers to grow on the roofs of their longhouses. The bright yellow spots are easy to see from a distance, a pillow of daisies that you could lie your head back on. Construction has already begun to repair the damages left by winter. They dodge the patches of yellow to tear out the rotten wood and reinforce the high beams. Mud is packed in to insulate the holes. Everyone is at work, plucked at random like strings on an instrument.

As for Connor, well, he works in his own ways. Collecting bait, clearing their beaches, among other responsibilities of his, don’t make him out to be the hardest worker in their village by any measure. However, he is important. He does work a child might do, but with much-needed skill. He can’t help but think that if Connor applied himself to their projects he could be one of the most efficient workers in the village. That would be asking a lot, however.

Frankly, he’s happy that Connor has accepted him as much as he has. He walks beside him with his head held high; no fear locks up his joints. A season of them sharing a bed, joined by other acts of domesticity, has redeemed Connor to his presence.

There’s still work to be done. Connor clams up around the company of other people, known or not. Like now, when he sees a few men from the village are returning with their wares. They bow their heads in respect for him but regard Connor with a glint in their eyes--the same way they have since his arrival. Connor keeps his head down as they rake over his clean clothes and smoothed back hair, picking him apart for clues.

Frederik moves up behind him, sending the men away with a nod before they scare Connor back under the table. 

One of Frederik’s cousins leans in when he passes. “He’s more lively now,” he says. It’s obvious who he’s referring to.

“He must hate the spring rain as much as the rest of you.”

Without much subtly, he glances at Connor. “He must,” his cousin teases.

Frederik bids him farewell. As they pass, he eyes their nets, sampling what they have caught. He won’t complain, not after a winter spent with a slim choice in diet. He can see Connor doing the same, with squinted eyes.

“More fish,” Connor says, once they’re out of earshot. He doesn’t look enthused about it. 

“One would think you’d be used to fish by now.”

“Used to does not mean like. After all, I’m used to you.”

“You don’t like me?”

Connor’s eyes slide to him. His head doesn’t move. “I don’t know.” He relaxes his arms, letting them hang. “What did he say about me?”

“He said you looked happy to be outside.”

“Is that really what he said, or are you softening his words for me?”

“We are  ættesamfunn _ ,  _ a family society. He respects you as one of our own. If he did not, he would be committing…” he looks for the words.

“A crime?” Connor prompts.

“No. An insult. An  _ injustice.  _ To us all, not just you.”

“It didn’t look like he liked me.”

Freddie laughs quietly. “His face is stony but I assure you he is a kind man. If you were to spend more time in the longhouses, around the fires, you would see that our tongue is kinder than you think.”

Connor starts walking forward, his answer already prepared. “I sleep in your bed, I bathe on command, I eat your food. Now you ask me to become one of your people?”

“If you did, then you could speak to others and not just me. My niece will be talking soon. Learn with her.”

Connor kicks a tangle of weeds with his foot. “I talk to others.”

“Members of my family, yes. But you would have so many other companions if you spoke Norse.” 

“You teach me.”

“I am too busy.” It’s not a lie. Winter has left them as shadows of their former selves, and it will take a lot of work to feed all of the new mouths. Between that and planning future expeditions, his hands are tied.

“Why does it matter what I speak?”

“Because the village children want to hear a story from a foreign war hero.”

Connor turns to him, ears perked. “Did you tell them that?”

“They are young. They know no better. When they see you with me, my rank covers you. Surely, you must have a story to tell them.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“They are in awe of you. Try to know them.” He moors Connor with an intense look. “Children don’t know that you are the enemy; they never had to fight you or see you as anything other than a proud warrior. They are a chance to become something new.”

He can see Connor parse the thought with both shoulders dropped. It doesn’t last long: soon, the sky opens up and drops of rain empty from above. What begins is a frantic scramble back to the longhouses. Anything Connor could have said in response is lost to the moment.

When they return, the routine they have followed as law for the last few months resumes. Connor helps clean out the straw and dirt from the bed closet as Frederik takes in the laundry that was hanging outside to dry. A small fire is started to engulf the room with heat, beating out the remnants of the cold that lingers outside their front door. Connor takes on the work a partner or member of the family would, and without complaint.

Since that first night, he has not returned to the floor. He shows his appreciation in the way he inches closer to Frederik when they’re alone. No words are spoken, but they share a tentative company. Connor will lightly touch him on the arm. With Frederik’s permission, it might slip higher.

The small touches graduate in their own time. Connor can’t admit to that--it would mean he’s rolled over for the enemy. Words can be repeated for others to hear but only Frederik can experience those moments of vulnerability. 

He will help Frederik fold the larger blankets while the chief stirs the spot and serves them their food. They eat in silence, on opposite sides of the table. 

Frederik is used to the banquets and jovial cries from family and friends. Dinner is a communal event. With Connor by his side, it’s different. Sure, they make the expected appearances at gatherings, but he’s pulled himself away from those scenes to give Connor space. What remains is a snare pulled around him and Connor, trapping them in the other’s company. He can now track the twitch of Connor’s fingers as well as he can the morning tide.

As for that evening, Connor is unusually quiet: keeping his comments to himself even when the situation might call for it. At first, Frederik worries that he might have offended him. Connor is a lot less subtle than that, though. He has to remind himself that at the first insult, Connor would have parted with a sneer. 

It isn’t until after the sun has set and they’re preparing for bed that Connor speaks, finally acting on the long looks he’s been giving him.

“I thought about what you said. About stories.”

Frederik finishes throwing water on his face. “And?” 

“I don’t think there is a story I can tell that doesn’t talk ill of the Vikings.”

“I can’t imagine why,” he says with a smile. “But now you’ve made me curious.”

“Young children are told that if they’re bad, they will be snatched up and sold. We train in battle under the assumption that you will behead us for one wrong move. My uncle--he was a lookout--would say that thunder carried the wings of your sails. You became a man when you became a warrior, because it meant you could fight Vikings.”

Frederik can’t decide what the stir in his body is trying to say. Does he feel a sense of pride? Is it shock, to hear Connor speak so ill about his family? These are things he’s heard for years now. These accusations are a badge of honour for him. It’s not as nice hearing them from Connor, however.

“You were our punishment.” Connor claps his hands together. “And we would pray, ‘Deliver us, oh Lord, from the fury of the Norsemen, the Vikings!” he imitates the chant with perfect accuracy. It must have been said many times over the years.

He props himself up on his elbows, bringing his face close to Frederik’s. “I told myself I would never bend. I would fight you to my dying breath. It was how I proved myself and made my family a name.” He leans back on his hands. “Whatever that means, now.”

“What’s a family name to a Norsemen like me?” Freddie’s voice lowers.

“Nothing,” Connor concludes. “To you, I am nothing.”

Freddie opens his mouth to correct him, but Connor is faster. “I don’t know why I’m here, or what I mean to you. Forgive me, for being so slow to trust when I have seen what you do to my brothers and sisters. If I become like you, I am a traitor to all that I love. Or loved.” His face droops.

It’s the conversation they always circle back to. Frederik feels any words he could say dry on his tongue.

Connor flops over beside him, staring at the closet door. After a moment’s contemplation, Frederik turns around also, so their backs are touching. Connor’s breaths are still coming quick when Frederik falls asleep.

He’s the first to wake the next day, which is ordinary. Connor sleeps like a hibernating bear. Frederik keeps the door open as he leaves, so the small bars of light that reach in can lie across his face. Mornings always dress Connor the prettiest.

He continues the day as normal, attending to the men that carve the figureheads of their ships and prepare them to one day set sail. Joining them is a younger class of warriors, those who have come of age in the last two seasons and are ready to prove themselves in combat. They have been reared on tales of glory, how they make a name for themselves by sacking the Western shoreline and doing trade by other nations who know them by name. He’s seen them practice mock-combat since they were old enough to start their mock apprenticeships. It comes naturally to them now. 

He briefly humoured throwing them onto Connor for practice. They could do with an example of how scrappy and tough the Celts are, particularly when they’re backed into a corner. Connor might like the exercise too; he must miss sparring like he would a limb.

It’s something to ask about; maybe to help mend whatever was hurt from their talk yesterday. What is strange is that he sees no sign of Connor, hours into the day. It’s become routine to see a head of bright red hair sticking up outside the chicken coup. It’s a task he can carry out independently of others, in rain or shine.

He’s been a lot better when it comes to leaving the homestead to work. Of all the problems he creates for Frederik, that has not been one in some time. He’s never had to think about Connor sleeping in, because it doesn’t happen.

He takes a break and reenters the mead hall, finding nothing disturbed. He heads right to the closet, only to find it cold and devoid of a body. He shuts the door.

He returns back to the seating area, finding not much of interest. He would have probably returned outside, if not for the heavy breathing he can hear that indicates there’s someone inside.

He’s surprised, to say the least, when he finds Connor backed up to the far wall. His legs are pulled up to his chest, his cheek resting on the perch his kneecaps create. 

Connor looks up as he nears. The sheen on his face makes him look sickly.

“I don’t feel well, stay away,” he says, barely audible.

Frederik favours his right knee as he kneels before him. “Tell me what is wrong first.”

He watches as Connor balls his hand into a fist and presses it into his stomach. He’s reluctant to say what’s bothering him, but the reason is clear. Frederik doesn’t have to look at his red face to know his shame.

“Are you okay?”

“It’s painful.” He sounds so sincere. Few things make his voice become so small.

Frederik extends a hand. “You should lay down.”

“It will make it worse.”

“You look ready to faint.” 

“I’m  _ fine.” _

“Don’t be prideful. Let me take care of you.” He uses two fingers to beckon.

Connor eyes the outstretched fingers with caution. He doesn’t look at Frederik when he takes them but does take the opportunity to lean on him as he finds his footing on two shaky legs. Frederik guides him like he would a small lamb, careful not to question his independence while also providing the help he needs to return to the closet.

Frederik tries to make the small space more comfortable before asking Connor to sit, now finding the current bedding to be inadequate. Connor does not complain; he doesn’t say much of anything. His eyes won’t leave the floor. Both of his shoulders are closing in, making his chest pop out as if he were a pigeon.

Frederik doesn’t wait for him to settle. He departs from the room in search of food. It’s unlikely that Connor would have eaten after he woke--Frederik would have seen him, and there’s no cooked food to be had in the other houses. He must be starved.

Still, he keeps the portion small enough to be consumed in one sitting: a small bowl of stew with boiled hare bones. When he returns, he finds Connor stretched out. He’s loudly breathing through his nose.

Frederik sits on the edge of the bed, placing the bowl down on the end table.

Connor’s face has lost its red colouring. In its place is a spread of pale skin. “Please, don’t feed me. I will be sick,” he groans.

“Does it hurt that much?”

“It is like being stabbed.” He shakes his head. “Every other season, it hurts like this.”

“Even back when you were a warrior?”

Connor’s top lip curls.  _ “Especially _ when I was a warrior. I would have to feign wounds to explain it to them.” For a second, he clears up. “I always had to blame my brother.”

Frederik smoothes out the sheets with one hand. “You were very brave.”

“No, I was a coward. I made others complicit in my sin.”

“What option did you have? You would be thrown out, or killed. The fact that you didn’t choose to leave is surprising to me.”

“It was the only home I ever knew. Where would I go?” He winces and curls into himself. “I hate this.”

“How can I help?” He moves his hand to Connor’s stomach, above his abdomen. “Is this okay?”

Connor stares at him, his eyes murky with a century’s long war that has muddied his once clear allegiances. His ears pinken, his cheeks next, and then he relaxes into Frederik’s touch. 

Frederik drops his hand lower, brushing the neat trail of hair below Connor’s navel as his hand settles on top of Connor’s. He presses down.

“Does that help?”

“Not really,” Frederik goes to lift his hand up, “but leave it there.” 

Connor takes back his other hand, leaving Frederik’s there alone. “Your hands are always so warm,” he says.

“Is warm good?”

“Yes. I’ve never had hands on me that weren’t my own.”

Frederik stamps his teeth together to make a seal. He presses the tips of his fingers in, finding Connor’s skin pliant to his touch.

“Who else knew?” he asks.

“My maam.” His expression turns fond. “I was lucky she didn’t turn me in. Most do.”

“Their own children?”

“It’s that or eternal damnation. Some think they’re doing their sons a favour; ending his life before he is dragged to hell.”

Frederik slits his eyes. “How cruel.”

“It wasn’t always that way. Maam said it was Celtic tradition to honour the bloodborn. Then one day, she said the honouring ceremonies stopped. Men who bled were seen as demons, and killed. They went into hiding after that.”

“I’ve heard about the bloodborn all my life. It was one of my mother’s favourite stories.”

“Tell it to me.”

“She said that some men are blessed by the moon. The God Máni would create his most devout followers in his image, making him stronger than any mortal. He would only choose the strongest, because they would attend to him and inspire worship in others with their acts of bravery. In return, they would have dominion over any man or woman.”

In earnest, Connor nods. His head canted to the side, he looks more invested in this than any conversation they’ve had prior. Frederik has to stop himself from tripping over his words with the sheer enthusiasm it brings. 

“When I sailed overseas, I would look for men like you. Many tales are just that: tales. But I had a feeling. I knew if I found one, he would be skilled in combat. As my mother would say, you were living proof of the gods, inside of a human body.”

Connor frowns.

“It sounds so other-worldly.”

“What about your mother? What did she say?”

“Where I come from, the  _ aes sídhe _ are responsible. They allowed the men who could outsmart them to carry on their lineage as they saw fit. But my father didn’t bleed. Or if he did, he didn’t tell me. I don’t know how I got it.”

“It’s an award for bravery, then.”

“It feels more like retaliation,” he says with a wince. “Only fools disturb creatures of the Otherworld. Perhaps I’m descended from one.”

“The way you tell your story makes it seem like you honour them.”

“Oh, there were stories about great heroes. Those who encountered a faerie circle during the full moon and were able to escape certain doom by using their wit. They were cunning, and feared for it.” He seems to find the last part funny; he laughs to himself.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing.” He’s smiling. It’s not a wide grin, but it’s noticeable. It doesn’t fit on his face the right way, like how a genuine smile would.

Frederik does not pry. He presses his hand down, feeling the tight band of muscles beneath. Connor sighs. His hand moves back and joins Frederik’s. 

Unlike the skin on his stomach, Connor’s hands have been bullied by manual labour and years of practice with a knife, both for combat and self-sufficient purposes. The healed scars remain. Under normal circumstances, Connor would never allow him to admire them as he is now. Frederik spares his pride, and does not draw attention to it. 

The pain ebbs and flows. At random, Connor’s back will arch. His leg will kick out or he will twist to the side. His knees will touch his forehead with how curled up he is. In positions like those, his bones jump out from his skin. His back tightens until the knobs of his spine are visible.

Just as soon as it begins, Connor will come back to the position on his back. Using the crook of his arm, he will wipe away the profuse sweat on his forehead. Frederik’s hand will return. He learns to strike a balance with how much pressure he applies; enough to distract--but not duplicate--the effects of the pain.

“I must have been cursed for a reason,” Connor murmurs. His head rolls to the side, curls lying limp over his eyes and nose. 

Frederik can’t help but be gentle. “Who would curse such a lovely thing like you?”

“Maybe they knew you would find me. They knew I would never return to my homeland.”

“Is that so bad? You live free here, with no need to hide who you are.”

“I don’t know. Is my life better here?”

Frederik’s almost afraid to hear the answer.

“I miss my friends. My parents are long dead but my brother must have been told that I was enslaved.” Connor stares up at the ceiling, his mouth ajar. “But he had a family of his own, so he didn’t really need me.”

He blinks, and his tight focus is snapped. He turns back to Frederik.

“I’m talking to myself. You don’t have to stay here with me.”

“I want to.”

Connor plays with the strands that have unwoven from Frederik’s wristband. They twist and braid the colours into new patterns. He looks up to gauge Frederik’s reaction, but Frederik has schooled his expression into something neutral. 

An idea comes to mind, inspired by their conversation from last night. 

“We were talking about stories: I think you should tell the children about the bloodborn,” says Frederik.

“But they won’t understand me.”

“I can tell it for you, but it’s still your story. And it’s the right one.”

Connor closes his eyes. His hand wraps around Frederik’s wrist. He can feel how tense Connor is; the pain jumping across that bridge of skin.

“Come here,” Connor says quietly. 

Frederik leans down. Connor raises his head. He brushes his lips across Frederik’s cheek, just catching the wisps of hair from his beard. The hand on Frederik’s wrist jumps to the side of his face, holding him there.

He waits for Connor to say something more, but the words evade him again. Instead, Frederik reciprocates with a kiss on the forehead; something small but strong, in keeping with his proud warrior.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are period cramps something to tag? If it's something that squicks you, there's a lot of it in this chapter. No mention of blood though.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was only supposed to be 5k. it's 10k. and yet the pacing is whack???  
i am so, so sorry about not being able to put out a quality product. uni starts back up tomorrow and im feeling very overwhelmed already with all that has to be done. i fear that i won't have time to write once it kicks up, so i was rushing to get this out. proofreading-wise, i might have missed a few things. feel free to comment if there are any egregious errors!

Connor’s hair shares a likeness to a woody plant now. It stems in every direction, growing with abandon. Like rich, red foliage, right on top of his head.

At first, Connor made excuses about the rainy season. He wanted to keep his hair long to hold heat close to his body. Then came summer, and the colour was kept alive. Sun and rain. The combination of both has grown it down past his shoulders.

He’s wanted to domesticate it for some time. The most Connor has let him do up until now is comb out the tangles, and even then he complained the whole time. He hated how Frederik would pull on the comb to tear it free. He hated the feeling of water dripping down the back of his neck, how Frederik would push the remaining hair over his eyes to get to the coils underneath.

Most of all, he hated how hard Frederik would grip the strands, which would spring out of his hand like the wiry reeds that dust the edges of rivers and brooks. 

“Ow!”

He still hates that.

Connor slants his head, so he can look out of the corner of his eye. “Must you be so forceful?”

Frederik pushes him down. “If you held still, I wouldn’t have to pull.”

“Are you almost done?”

“Almost. Now be still.”

He weaves the strands into a structure he pulls tight. The alternating sections of hair shine with a rainbow of colouring; he sees a shrine of gold, copper, and brown converging with the red roots. The darker shades hug the sides of Connor’s head, which have been pulled back and out of his eyes.

The coloured tape is braided into the hair, joining the parting down to the tie at the end. Even from behind, he can see how it makes him look like a farmhand; someone who’s more hardy, who’s survived the onslaught of the elements and all that his opponents could throw at him. 

It makes Connor look more like them.

Frederik watches Connor twist his body, trying to catch a glimpse of what he looks like. The two thin braids--conjoined at the nape--flop around.

“How do I look?” Connor asks.

“Fagr,” he says in his native tongue. No Celtic word could do him justice, not looking as he is now.

“What does that one mean?”

“Pleasing to the eye. Beautiful.”

“Fagrir,” Connor repeats under his breath. He adds another syllable, trying to make the words skip where they should be leaping.

“Close. Fagr. Be more forceful.”

“Fagr.” It slaps the air.

“Better.”

The praise erases the wrinkles from Connor’s face. He leans into him with a sigh, his head flat to Frederik’s chest. Both of Frederik’s hands slip down from his head, to the bony junctures that protrude out from Connor’s shoulders.

“I must sound foolish,” Connor says, his body loose and face smooth.

“You’re learning. It’s not possible to sound foolish.”

Connor stretches his back. It pops several times.

“I can hear the children laugh at me.”

“That’s different. They laugh at everyone.”

“Yes. They know no fear, those ones.”

“The only way to teach a child fear is to spook them with tales of old. I like to warn them with lessons about what happens to those who disobey their parents.”

“What does happen?”

“The earth splits open and swallows them whole.”

“I see.”

“Among many other punishments. Some I make up, if I think they aren’t listening to me.”

Excitement travels over Connor’s face. “I can think of a few to add to the list.”

Frederik chuckles, pressing a hand down on Connor’s scalp. “I’m sure.”

They exist in the silence of that moment. Then, out of nowhere:

“Can I teach  _ you _ a word?” says Connor. 

Connor has taught him plenty already, but the rule of exchange is important. To give without receiving is an insult in any language. Connor is no longer a weary soul, needing his food and his protection in order to survive. He is capable of returning the favour.

“Yes.”

Connor turns around until they’re facing each other. It’s new to see his face in full, without his curls draping over the side. He was always too busy admiring them to look Connor in the eye.

“Deamhan.” Spoken with uncertainty. 

Frederik knows, but he still asks, “and what does that one mean?”

“It means I am an evil spirit who must be killed.” His hands are clasped in front. They look tense with nervous energy.

He knows that word. He’s familiar with how the thralls say it behind Connor’s back. Worse, he can’t stop them from saying it. All he could do is threaten them with their lives, though it would never stop their hatred of Connor; it would only augment it.

He thought Connor was beyond their words and threats of harm. Clearly, he is within their grasp if those thoughts come to him. It’s impossible to live and work in the village without coming into contact with the lower castes. He isn’t sure if he can defend Connor from their accusations, seeing as how the damage they inflict occurs under the skin. 

Connor sees him thinking; he must, considering how long it takes for Frederik to respond. “I doubt you’ll get much use of it, but I thought you should know.”

“I had thought about it,” says Frederik.

“My hair always made them look harder at me. Red was not favourable. It made them accuse me of all kinds of heresy, even without knowing the truth.”

Frederik nods.

Connor runs a hand down his newly-woven braids. When he brings the hand back, he inspects the open palm. 

“I never liked my hair. I hated it. I hated how people would look.” His hand drops into his lap. “But I don’t hate it right now.”

It takes a second for Frederik to realize what he’s saying. “You like wearing it like that?”

“Yes.”

“I’m glad. I’ll teach you how to braid later.”

Connor gets up onto his knees. The chair gives him the added height he needs to be level with Frederik’s face.

“Thank you,” he whispers. They’re sharing the same breath. It feels too intimate, but it’s something he’s been wanting for so long. 

At the last second, Connor’s nerves overcome him. Instead of the kiss Frederik was expecting, Connor touches their foreheads together, and says nothing by mouth. His eyes stare into Frederik’s, and that’s the sum of his gratitude.

Connor’s dance around him is nothing new. The beginning of Frederik and the end of him is unchartered territory. There’s a risk that comes with exploration. He’s seeing Frederik for the man he is, not the warrior who bested him, the captor that took him, or the chief that leads him. He’s human and tangible. Connor can touch it; map him.

Those are freedoms that Connor never had before. If he did want to admire, it would have to be from afar. Acting on his impulses would confirm more than enough rumours. He can’t blame him for withholding himself from the world as a defence.

That said, he wants more than just his company. He bares himself, hoping Connor will find the courage to try something. He knows Connor looks. The invitation is there, delivered on the backs of his hands and the meat of his thighs. Connor could have it all. He must want it.

He’s so chaste. It occurs to him that Connor may not know how to touch. He’s always been so overtly cautious, unlike how most Celts intend to injure and bruise. It’s hard to compare this Connor to the one he fought--the one who left him with cuts and puncture wounds that lasted weeks after the initial encounter.

Connor still wears the scars from that fight on his face. Frederik wants to worship them. They are a mark of forever on his skin. A sign that they were evenly matched.

This new Connor knows none of those hardships: he stretches out in the bed closet like a ship cat, plump and sated from its last meal. His hand plays with Frederik’s shirt strings, flicking the wisps of his chest hair as they slide down.

“You can touch,” says Frederik. It’s too dark to see Connor’s face. He’s grateful, because that means it’s mutual for Connor; he won’t see the embarrassment that’s boiling Frederik’s face hot red.

“I am touching.”

“You know what I mean.”

Connor hums. The hand disappears under the shirt collar. It’s cold, compared to how hot Frederik is running. He feels the pads of Connor’s fingertips daub at the smears of dirt on his skin.

“How do you show love here?” Connor whispers.

“The same way you do, I would think.”

Connor uses his elbows to lift himself up. The already-small space makes it hard for him to move his body around without thumping the walls, but he manages. He’s even able to box Frederik in with both arms, slowly resting his weight on top of him. It gets harder to breathe.

Connor’s lips are faint on his own. He draws on no practice or confidence to speak of. It’s a virginal touch. Connor takes the risk and has the decency to look shy after. Frederik can tell he’s smiling by the glint of his teeth, which catch in the light.

“Like that?”

“It’s a start.”

Although he wants to impose something more bold on him, it would no doubt scare Connor away. So, he reins himself in. His reward is a lot kinder: a reciprocal kiss that barely answers the call for him to press Connor down and make him feel owned. 

A kiss is a show of love, and his love for Connor is a force stronger than a simple brush of the skin. If he could, he would make him wise on their customs in a night. They don’t need words to say what hands on the waist can. 

Connor kisses him again and it’s just as ghost-like. It’s hard to believe it even took place once Connor falls back onto the straw mattress beneath them, content to sleep away. He’s ignorant to the predicament he’s just stranded Frederik in. That’s the worst torture of all.

He had Connor there, in that moment. He feels so far away now.

The air is sticky with heat. He can feel the condensation drip down his brow, his clothes plastered to his body. Connor looks a bit feverish: the flush on his cheeks is also apparent on his upper chest and forehead. Though his breaths come rapid and shallow, he’s dead to the world.

A billow of hot air escapes the bed closet when he opens the door, like steam wafting up from a heated pot. He opens the front door to help moderate the indoor temperature, aware they may be hearing crickets well into the early hours of tomorrow morning but unable to bear the swelter for much longer.

If it keeps up, this will be a miserable day for labour in the fields. As the crops lap up the sunlight, there will be nothing but a sea of loosely-fit tunics for the rest of them. Metal adornments are removed and left in their strongboxes. Already, he can see the splashes of children down by the water’s edge. A few parents hang by to supervise their play. 

He can’t watch long; the waves kick up the light from the sun and his eyes begin to burn. He continues down the steps, to the centre of town. The ones that are awake greet him with weary smiles. Talk doesn’t progress far past a greeting and basic run-down of the day’s errands. Some, he hasn’t checked in with for days. His free time has been compromised as of late.

The outer farms operate as normal: the thralls put to work watering their seeds and uprooting the weeds that take hold. Each one he passes by looks up at him. Their shoulders bunch up and the muscles in their necks pull taut.

A few faces from Connor’s band stick out, each one naked without their war paint. They are the ones that hate him the most, for they have fresh grievances to layer on top of him. Whether it’s because he took Connor from them and disguised him with Viking colours or debased himself to lie with sin, he’s unsure. They reach the same conclusion either way.

They won’t see eye-to-eye on this. Celtic prisoners work to death to feed others, while Viking prisoners burn alive under religious rite. Each hates the other more than they can show on their faces or express with their fists. They call him a word that Connor translates to undertaker, and he pins it to his cloak and walks with it.

His survey of the town ends with the docks. Sebastian is there with his wife. Their daughter, who sits in her lap, flails her chubby arms around. She’s copying the birds that circle overhead, squawking with them.

Sebastian embraces him when he approaches, smelling of labour and stable work. Frederik wrinkles his nose at the stink of animal: horse, sheep, and cow.

“Brother, it’s been days!” exclaims Sebastian as he lets go. “We need to talk.”

“Then let’s talk.” He dips his head in respect to his brother’s family as they part. Helga responds with a coo, and pats down a pile of sand.

Sebastian takes him up to the cliff’s edge. The wind soars up from underneath them, catching onto their sleeves. From there, it’s easy to see the few shored boats, arranged to face the tide. They are anchored by the rocks that sit behind them; a sturdy face their town sits on. The only thing they’re missing are the sails.

“We’re able to sail as soon as the end of this week.”

“Really?”

“We have enough food stores from the mild winter, and the dry season will only last so long. There are camps to set up,” says Sebastian, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“You completed repairs faster than I thought.”

“We had more hands than usual. They made up for yours.”

Frederik pulls back. His absence was noted, and why wouldn’t it have been? He used to work to exhaustion on these beaches, giving them the ships they needed to sail far away from this place.

“I apologize.”

“My only hope is that you will return to commandeer the skeids once more.”

“I would have thought, with all the work you’ve done, that you would want to lead the charge.”

To his surprise, Sebastian condemns the thought with a shake of his head. “Me?” he chuckles, “they look only to you. I do enjoy being a leader, but you will always be our jarl. Unless you lost your taste for victory while you were locked in that longhouse of yours.”

He pushes Sebastian with his shoulder, unable to conceal his smile.

It’s true he misses the unknown hills and moors that pepper distant shores. Even things he despises, like the downpour of rain when they’re at sea, come to him in memories he could only describe as fond. He misses the salty taste in his mouth in battle: the spit blood and saliva. The fog in the distance, the fear in his opponent’s eyes. It all comes to him in a slush. 

There come a few unwanted visuals too, ones that cool his excitement faster than his imagination can stoke the flames. He relives his battle with Connor through tired eyes, protected against his blows and knowing the outcome. Knowing that it ends with them here, and that this is the beginning of the end.

Still, he asks, “what about Connor?”

“What about him?”

“He can’t be left alone.”

Sebastian shrugs. “Perhaps that is a good thing.”

Frederik eyes him warily. Sebastian continues.

“You smother that boy. Wherever you go he follows, like a hunting dog and its master. At least when you’re gone, he will have to come live with us.”

He fails to see the reasoning. “He cannot speak to anyone. He will go mad.”

“When Helga begins to speak, he can learn with her. Until then, Amalie can speak on his behalf.” Sebastian is smiling, as if he thinks of himself as so clever. “If anything, this gives him an opportunity to learn more. You underestimate how fast he picks up on the people around him. You have been the one holding him back.”

“He trusts me. I cannot take that away from him now.”

“You are not abusing his trust. You have a duty to us, to be our leader.”

“I have a duty to him as well.”

“He is not a boy.” His voice twinges with frustration. “Do not treat him as though he’s a child. He will understand and deal with it like the rest of us.”

No immediate response jumps to his tongue. Doubt creeps in, burrowing deep underneath his fingernails where he won’t be able to get it back out.

Sebastian claps his shoulder. “Trust me, brother, he will thank you.”

Thank him. He finds that hard to believe. Sebastian has always been the optimistic sort, ever since they were young. This wouldn’t be the first time he disagreed with him, but it would be the most divisive. 

There have been seasons where he pounced on--almost impulsively--any sign that they could get to sea early. On bated breath, he’d look out at the fine line in the distance, where the ocean and clouds become one, and will himself out to those waters. Whether it was to make trade or ransack the distant towns was irrelevant. For him, the greatest joy came from going where he shouldn’t be, and making a part of it his.

Now, he takes up hunting with family and old friends and has no desire to be without them. There’s a warmth that isn’t the summer heat beating down on him as he walks the trodden path up toward the pine forests. The weapon in his hand is a reminder that here, the animals and plants serve them. This land is their home, and it’s about to slip out from underneath him.

He’s only passively involved in the hunt, finding himself swarmed by intrusive thoughts that edge into his vision. A spear is pressed into his hands but the whole time they’re out, he brings nothing down. It’s his knife he ends up using, to gut the beasts out from the inside. He does so with a head full of cotton, making mistakes even a novice could avoid. Blood-lines are cut, staining his hands a red that a single wash won’t be able to clean.

He hates the wounded looks he gets. For many, it’s proof that the introduction of Connor has estranged him from his own village. The proud jarl, reduced to a few appearances in public. Whipped, and unable to work as he did when he was named their protector. He’s turned his back on the sea: the provider of their riches.

There’s a personal failure there. To his people. A stranger has been put first, one who was born and raised in a culture they associate with fights and overseas raids. Sure, thralls have worked their way into a place of belonging. They inherited and bought land, finding themselves families. It is a process that takes years. Connor has not had the time to come into good favour, as others once did. 

Maybe this has been bad for both of them. In his pursuit of a relationship, he’s turned them all against him. Trust has to be earned. Connor has more people than him to appeal to.

The dogs bark as they chase hares through the undergrowth, stepping through marsh and fungi clusters to bring down prey. Their voices are small mumbles that don’t shut up; not when he’s hauling back kill or slamming the front door shut to escape from the sight of the boats in the distance. 

Connor is by the fire pit in the room’s centre. He doesn’t look up, prompting Frederik to speak. It feels like forever since he’s heard his voice.

“Connor.”

“Frederik,” Connor greets. His eyes are half-lidden and his smile faint. He thinks he’s being subtle. “Was hunting good?”

“Very.”

“I’m hungry already.” He closes his eyes and lets his head fall. There is amusement in his voice, but no anger.

Frederik puts down his gear, finding the invisible weight on his back too heavy to bear. Connor was not told about their coming departure, but that’s to be expected. These matters wouldn’t concern him--except in the many, many ways they do.

He should explain it to him. A simple but firm talk, just to get it over with. Connor has always acted within reason. This shouldn’t be different; and if it is, the next few days will be important for healing.

He loses the moment to his own hesitation. Connor occupies himself with fixing the iron tripod they suspend their cauldron from. He’s becoming good with his hands. Or maybe he always has been. A skillet rests underneath, cooking flatbread.

He watches Connor prepare to eat, unwrapping his personal knife and bowl, and feels his chest cave in. Usually, it’s on Connor’s behalf that they skip communal eating; content to share the other’s company. That night, it’s him who asks them to keep away. 

A large part of it feels selfish. It makes him think back to Sebastian. No matter what he does, he can’t shake the thought that he’s done wrong by Connor.

Even in bed that evening, it’s all he can think of. A full stomach doesn’t distract him. The added company makes matters worse.

Connor has pulled himself flush. His face is only a length of two away from Frederik’s, who is staring up at the ceiling.

“Will you take me hunting with you, one day?”

His conversation with Sebastian looms over his shoulder. Still, he pulls his lips into a smile as he tilts his head to the side.

“Of course. Let’s hope you can bring down something other than rabbits.”

Connor joins him in smiling. “Rabbits are child’s play.”

“Squirrels, then.”

Where he should feel comfort and the glow of Connor’s companionship, he feels empty. The chasm deepens the closer it gets to his heart, where Connor is held the closest. He didn’t know he could have this and now, he’s about to lose it.

He strokes Connor’s cheeks with his thumbs. He commits the peace on his face to memory; something warm he can draw on when their ship is rocking in the wind and he’s down to the last of their stores, eating just enough to survive.

He takes a deep breath, then kills the moment dead.

“I must go back to Northumberland.” 

The words trudge, like they’re being pushed through mud. When they reach Connor, his face drops.

“Back?”

“We have farms to check on and men to fight--you should know.” He fails to capture the humour it should have, making it sound as though he’s reprimanding him.

Connor doesn’t appear to notice, nor care. His eyes have cleared. Frederik’s heart sinks when he recognizes the look in them as determination.

“Let me come with you,” Connor says.

“No.”

“You know I can fight.”

“Of course I do, I fell in love with you then.”

“So why not?”

“What shall I ever say if something were to happen to you?”

“What shall I ever say if something were to happen to  _ you _ ?” Connor says, his forehead creased. “Just because I bleed doesn’t mean I cannot fight anymore.”

“It has nothing to do with that.”

“Then what? I am capable, strong. What reason could you have to not bring me with you, when I know so much?”

Frederik takes both sides of his face in his hands. “Because in coming here, you have grown. Who am I to take away that freedom, after you have fought for years to live as you are now?”

“It is not up to you. This is my choice to make.”

“I am your jarl. If I say you will not get on those boats, then you won’t.”

Connor’s face loses its life. “You will take me here but you won’t bring me back.”

Though unintentional, the wording rubs Frederik the wrong way. Anger rises up his throat like bile and it’s out of his mouth before he can swallow.

“Is that why you want to go? So that you can run back to your family and live a life of deceit?”

“I said I wanted to fight beside you.”

“And I said no.”

“Does that make me your prisoner? How dare you talk about me being free if I lack the freedom to make my own decisions!”

Frederik grabs his wrist and squeezes. “You are to do as you’re told. I won’t yield to this fit of temper!”

Connor yanks on his arm, taking it back and laying it over his chest. He rolls over to his other side, moving as far as he can before he hits the door.

He’s just destroyed something very cherished between them, and for the first time in his life, there’s the bitter taste of contempt that he feels toward his own kin for being the reason why.

Connor wakes before him the next day, and is nowhere to be seen. Frederik has to distance himself from his hurt feelings to return to work, and it gives him no pleasure to do so. 

There are so many things vying for his attention. They have him tripping over his own two feet trying to organize who will go, who will stay, and who will be in charge during it all. The Thing tries to resolve those disputes, to mixed results. Too many voices are struggling to be heard over each other. It’s enough to drive a man mad.

It’s always been like this. Maybe more so, now that there’s so many of them. Their children are growing into their spears and daggers faster than they can find armour to clothe them in. He feels so much pride. And grief. 

He blames the heat and excuses himself from the assembly.

It isn’t until late evening that he sees Connor again, chaperoned by Amalie. By the looks of it, his mood hasn’t improved. He’s heavy on his feet, wanting no one’s company. Amalie’s mouth is moving a lot more than his is.

Frederik has nothing to say, so he does not intervene in their conversation. He does look. That, he can’t deny himself. 

He misses Connor’s hidden input. It would be invaluable now. The slivers of good advice that would shine through during large spiels...it’s hard to believe he got used to it. He could count on him being there at night to untangle the day’s problems.

The next time he sees Connor, it’s when the sun has already set. He’s ready to rest, kicking his footwear aside once he’s entered. The door clamps shut behind him, taking the darkening skies with it. He doesn’t have to worry about indoor lighting: a few wicks have already been lit. 

Connor is there, but stares ahead at the wall when Frederik calls for him. He continues nursing the dying flames as Frederik moves to the back room to find a change in clothes. He can smell the tang of sea salt in the air and he wonders: has Connor been down to the beaches?

That world feels so far away from here. The walls are starting to trap him indoors, a feeling that’s reinforced by his decision to move to the tiny space of the bed closet. He’s soon joined by Connor, who stands aside in his underclothes.

He has crossed his arms over his chest, hiding the skin that Frederik had once mapped with his lips. Though he’s nearby, he makes no move to enter the closet.

“How long will you be gone?” asks Connor.

He tries to think about it, but there’s a block taking up space in his head. “A season, at least,” sounds like a good answer.

“At  _ least?” _

“I have no control over the length of the journey.”

“Except you do.”

“I swore an oath to my people. I have already waited too long to return.”

“To return to what? Pillaging? Murdering? How can that be essential?” He unfolds his arms. “You live here! Free of conflict, full with food.”

“We have a duty to those we left behind, to man our farms and colonies.” 

“What about your duty to the people here?”

“I’m doing this for them. We trade what we find to help our village prosper. Ours is not the only one on the coast.”

“I don’t remember you stopping to trade when you enslaved me.”

“Because that was not the purpose of our attack. And if it was, we would have good reason.”

“So I’m to stand by and listen to you talk about murdering people for their possessions. You’re selfish.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You could survive without those things.”

“Just barely. Do you think their monasteries need the luxuries that they have? Who is truly selfish?”

“They are items of worship.”

“Worship to who? A God that would see you dead?”

Connor purses his lips.

“Don’t talk as though you’re doing this for me.”

“I’m not. Do you think you’re the only one who’s upset with me? There are plenty who are being left behind.”

“That’s an unfair argument. You get to choose who comes with you. They get to choose whether to become fighters. But I didn’t have a choice to come here!”

The corners of Connor’s mouth lifts. It’s not a smile. It’s more of a gloat, because nothing Frederik can say will make up for the history carved into the backs of their hands. He will always be Frederik’s prisoner.

If Connor’s still holding onto that, then there is no hope of getting through to him. Frederik pinches the corners of his anger before it spirals out of control again and pulls, pulls back until it’s not as visible.

“You have the choice to be an adult about this.” He lies onto his back, folding his hands over his stomach.

Connor’s arms fall by his sides. He forces air out through his nose.

“So you know,” he says, “I don’t care where you go or what you do. I just thought you would trust me.”

He walks away. Frederik waits, and waits, and waits for him to come back to sleep. The other side of the bed stays cold. He passes out before long.

Connor is sleeping on the longhouse floor the next morning, using the table’s bench to conceal his lower half. His back is up against the wall. He stirs when Frederik steps beside him but his eyes do not open. Not for the whole of the time that Frederik stands there, watching his chest rise and fall.

He can’t deduce whether Connor was pretending when he walks away. He almost doesn’t want to know.

It’s said that many will go without to let the warriors eat for the time they are at sea. Everyone’s first thought is to empty the vats of sour whey and salt to get to their food supply. Discussions open up about rations and methods of preserving food, deciding what will keep and what should stay here. They take a count of how many fighters their ships can hold and draw rough estimates in the sand with the butt end of their spears.

However, ensuring the village has proper food stores comes first. They rake the shores for dulse to dry out. Fresh game is cleaned, smoked, and hung from kitchen beams. They open stores of grain and stuff wild berries into the moss that cushions their pots. Frederik wants to find as much as possible, so that those left behind do not have to struggle. They will already be down a few hunters and fishers, not to forget that the colder seasons provide less food to begin with.

Frederik trusts his sister and her judgement. She has always done right by him when he was away; preparing for the worst but staying calm throughout it all. If his raiders do end up spending a winter on Northumbria’s soil, then he can sleep knowing the village will have food and firewood to stay alive with, even when they are buried with snow.

For now, they load the ships with whatever surpluses they can uncover. Beneath the boards, curvy-grass leaves stuff the wedges. Salt preserves keep their soon-to-be food from festering. They check and double-check for rodent stowaways. Someone brings up the idea of taking a cat along with them.

The planks creak with the weight of man on them. Beneath the pine, where the keel and stems form the vessel’s shape, there’s a shudder of anticipation. This ship already knows of the danger of the voyage. His fingers trace the ribbing, feeling the rivets’ hardened edges as they fasten the boards to the ship’s belly. All the while, his hands itch to touch stone cairns, to track the cliff sides far in the distance.

People come out to see the ship’s curved stem, ready to sail into battle. A few more days, he tells himself. He smiles and feeds into the excitement as best he can. Most of the planning has happened with his permission, but without consultation. It’s not the only thing he’s been missing since taking Connor in. He’s surprised that everyone has this much faith in him, after all this time.

There’s a brief turnaround. Instinct tells him that it’s Connor he should be angry with, not the people most precious to him. It’s Connor making the unreasonable demands. He’s just one person. One face in a very large crowd.

And of all the faces he sees down there that day, Connor’s is not one of them. Later, he’s told that Connor ate away from the town’s celebratory feast. No one is shy about the fact that he found companionship with a few of the village’s younger men--those who can empathize with the feeling of being left out. And so, they step away from his table to stew in their anger. A few bones are all that’s left of their fireside conversation, when he tries to investigate.

He knows they don’t do it because they like Connor--they would die before acknowledging they liked the company of a Celt. This is all to spite him, he’s sure.

He doesn’t know where Connor sleeps that night, but it’s not with him.

As anticipated, Frederik has a younger karl get up in his face the next morning. He challenges him over the first meal of the day, in front of about twenty others. Frederik stops mid-chew to listen to his drivel. It’s not every day that he’s called an incompetent leader.

With all eyes on him, the man falters. His well-prepared speech is revealed for the idle talk it is. His words skirt out from under him. It becomes harder to follow what he’s saying. Still, he doesn’t turn away from Frederik.

Frederik listens with only half of his mind. This isn’t the first challenge and it won’t be the last. However, most that came before this were accompanied by steel. The boy clearly doesn’t think he could best him in combat; instead, relying on the village to back his words. He doesn’t come well armed: few, if any, share his opinion. They know this all stems back to his desire to go to Northumbria and the envy he feels toward those who have earned the privilege.

Frederik doesn’t prod at the coals. He waits for the man to stop speaking, then stands to address the room. 

“Does anyone here ally themselves with him?”

No one speaks up. Those that sympathize might avoid his eyes. The vast majority wait for Frederik to retaliate. The boy is just old enough to be chased to the village’s boundary and left to fend for himself, for his insubordination. 

Once shown the divide, the boy takes a wounded stance. No doubt members of his family are among those who listen in. He’s starved of anything he could use to remove Frederik from his seat, which turns on him. Many eyes study him and his flaws. They pick him apart.

The boy takes his leave before they can scavenge what’s left of his pride. He thinks of something on his way out, which he shouts for the whole room to hear.

“Perhaps if you had half the mind to care for your own people before the likes of our enemies!”

Frederik takes issue with that. He stands before his group and answers:

“Then you have yet to learn what it means to be an enemy.”

He finishes what’s left of his bowl, thanks the hosts for their hospitality, and takes his leave without another word said. Wisely, no one thinks to stop him. He doesn’t have the patience for something else now. With all he’s trying to manage, he has little to spare when it comes to good conduct.

Amalie finds him, not much later. The flash of colour gets him excited before he realizes it’s her, but he is no less fond when she walks up to him. Her shoulder brushes his. 

He speaks first. “It could have been worse.”

“Yes, it could have. He had other supporters, but I sent them away to replenish our fish stores earlier this morn.”

He relaxes his grip on the fence. “Thank you.”

“Thank Connor. He told me they were thinking of a challenge today. I thought the fewer numbers, the better.”

“I regret to leave them with you.”

“Oh, those boys won’t be challenging me anytime soon. Even if they take power, I’m sure you’ll be back before long to seize it.”

Frederik chuckles. She shoves him.

“I shouldn’t have to warn you to come back in one piece, but I will if I have to.”

“Consider me warned.”

They observe the flock as it grazes. It’s much calmer than the sea. He doesn’t have the waves interrupting him, or forcing him louder. Amalie is much less concentrated on it. She picks what’s growing up the fence post. As a child, she used to have a knack for braiding flowers and grass together, but he hasn’t seen her do it in years.

“Your boy misses you,” says Amalie. Her fingers twirl a stalk of grass.

He sighs. “I don’t know what to do with that one.”

“Is he upset because he can’t come?”

“Yes. He is ignorant to the fact he will be killed if they find him.”

“Is that the only reason why? They would kill any of us without hesitation, not just him.”

“I worry he might go back.” He keeps it vague, not wanting to speak anything into existence.

“He lived a warrior’s life before this. Of course he would want to go back to it. But to the Celts? No. He speaks of them with no fondness. He was born into that allegiance and lived by it. Now, he’s found something else to fight for.”

“He said it himself: it was not his choice to be here.”

“No,” she agrees, “but you see how he looks at you. He’s free to wander but he stays with you. He’s been offered a bed in the longhouse many times over and yet, he chooses to sleep with you in yours.”

“Out of necessity.”

“And what of the hair braiding, the shared meals, and the long walks? Are those necessary?”

“I suppose not.”

She laughs. “He won’t speak his mind, so read his body. As for the journey, I know it will upset the karls to take him with you. I know you fear for his well being and I think it’s reasonable to keep him where he can be safe. But I think he needs you, and I can’t help but imagine how distraught he’d be if you were lost at sea or slain in battle and he never knew what happened.”

He mulls her words over, hearing nothing he hasn’t already thought but feeling reassured by it nonetheless. It is only within the small confines of his family relations that he’s able to spell his own personal troubles out. Since losing Connor for an ear, he’s had to contain most of this inside of him--and he’s running out of room.

As the night draws near, he pays attention to smaller but no less necessary things. He drinks with a few old friends. He serves each man, woman, and child in the village with a bowl of stew to commemorate victories of old and new. In return, they bless him with good fortune. Hands press into his forehead, leaving small grease smudges in shape of their prints. It all feels familiar, enough to make his heart ache.

He gorges himself on ale until there’s no room left for uncertainty. Any doubts are drowned out by the shouts of drinking songs, sung by the sailors of tomorrow’s voyage. Their sons and daughters copy the words as best they can, running around their legs and making them trip. It’s a sticky, hot environment. They shed all that they have on, working their way to indecency one layer at a time.

Eventually, what starts as a large gathering breaks off into smaller groups. Once the families climb into their bunks, the thick clouds of intensity begin to melt into thin air. Since everyone will see each other when they say their farewells, no one stops to linger. They find their beds and he goes back to his, within that small mead hall on the top of the hill.

It’s a cold, apathetic place. The belongings he will take with him have been put aside, closest to the door. The rest is packed away and out of sight. He doesn’t wait around. He knows how many steps it takes to get to his bed. He’s measured it over days and nights. He bumps into no furniture on the way there. The last thing he’s looking for is a sign of life.

He’s half-way finished undressing when there’s movement in the corner of his eye. A turn of his head reveals Connor, standing just inside the range of items he can see in the dark. He’s rumpled with sleep, eyes pulled down and hair uncombed and wild. Frederik hasn’t seen hide nor hair of him all night.

He motions at the bed. Frederik moves aside to give him room to sit. Connor does not accept. After seasons spent sharing the cramped space, the distance that separates them feels too great. It’s empty. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving earlier?”

“I didn’t know. I oversaw many things but the ships were not one of them. I had thought we would need another winter to prepare.”

“But you seem so ready to leave.”

“We were once nomads. It’s not like me to stay in one place for long.”

“We don’t have much in common,” Connor says. He bites at his bottom lip. “Maybe we were always too different.”

Frederik stands up. He has no intention of keeping the length between them. He touches Connor’s cheek with the back of his hand. 

“Don’t let this divide us. You will always be precious to me.” 

He wipes away any remnants of grime he can see. 

“I don’t want us to part as enemies. Not after...all of this,” Frederik says.

Connor’s face twists into something ugly. He grabs handfuls of Frederik’s shirt as he bows his head.

“Please don’t leave me.”

Frederik tips his chin up with two fingers. “Do you really want to go home so bad?”

“I want to come with you,” he says, in a near shout, “but I don’t want to go home. I don’t need that place anymore.”

“You betrayed them and their cause. If they find you Connor, you will be slaughtered.”

“But I--”

“Know that I don’t say that to insult your skill in combat. You’re a respectable warrior and you can hold your own. This doesn’t concern how you fight.”

“That’s not why I’m angry. You want to leave me here by myself.”

“So you can find other friends and be happy.”

“I am happy. I’m happy when I’m with you.”

“No,” Frederik shakes his head. “You were right before. I was selfish. I kept you to myself. You should have lived with my people first and found acceptance with them, not me.”

“I didn’t want to be accepted. I had to be with you first.”

“Connor,” he grits his teeth, “how many times must we argue about this?”

“As many times as it takes for you to see reason. Nothing you say can convince me otherwise.”

“What if I had the might of the village holding you back?”

Connor steps toward him, initiating him with a fiery look.

“I’ll tie myself to your mast if need be,” he says with a straight face. 

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not the one being ridiculous.”

He holds Frederik by his chin and slams their lips together.

The surprise stops him cold. He doesn’t know where to put his hands, as Connor moves in on him. The combination of the hands on his neck and the mouth that won’t let him breathe would make any ordinary man assume he’s under attack.

He doesn’t see Connor’s eyes until he pulls away to suck down air. It’s hard to tell, being as dark as it is, but they look clouded. Like he’s unsure of himself.

“Connor,” he tries to caution. He grabs onto both of Connor’s arms and stops him from moving forward. “Are you sure?”

“You have to stop doubting me.”

“But why--” he dodges another kiss. “Connor. Listen to me. Are you okay?”

“I’m angry.”

“I know.”

And then: “I don’t want you to go.” Spoken with just enough of a wobble to make him look harder at Connor’s face. He sees the thin lines that stretch his face with worry. He wants to cure it, and he doesn’t know how.

“I don’t want to go,” he admits. Words he could never say to anyone else.

“Then why?” Connor whispers.

“I have to. I want to.” His teeth gnaw at the inside of his cheek. “I’m needed.”

“Take me with you. Let me flay their insides open.” He rips his wrists out of Frederik’s hold, pressing both open palms to his upper chest like a brand.

Frederik chuckles. He tires to remove Connor’s hands but the fingers hook into the thin fabric of his shirt.

“What?” asks Connor. “Why is that funny?”

“Because we’re so alike.” Because he wonders what it would have been like, if Connor was born here. If they grew up together. If he courted him as chieftain. If they--

“We are,” Connor agrees.

But even if they wed here, if they were a matched set, Frederik would still be going, going, gone. And Connor would stay here, to look after the village in his absence. It wouldn’t be any better.

Connor’s hands let go and drop down. They slide over the flat muscles of Frederik’s stomach. They meet the two thinning bands that curve down to his pelvis. Frederik lets him explore without interruption.

He cups Frederik. “I want to do this,” he emphasises with a squeeze. “I want to go with you. So let me--”

He can’t deny it anymore. He can’t speak for Connor.

“Are you bleeding?” he asks, almost too late. He’s ready to tear Connor’s shirt down the seam. He emphasizes his point with a palm over Connor’s lower groin.

“No,” Connor pants. “That has ended.”

“Good.” Frederik kisses him. “I want to lie with you.”

Connor tenses, which makes Frederik stop. In an instant, he’s back up in Frederik’s face, urging him on as he rolls his hips up.

“You’ll need to show me how.”

Frederik forgets to respond. He finds himself irritated at the sight of buttons and belts that hide Connor from him. He removes them without much care, throwing them outside so they won’t be disturbed. It all feels like too much too quick, but it’s not him pushing the limit.

Connor looks him in the eyes and issues his challenge, hand raised into the air. Frederik leans into his touch, humming. His hand slips down Connor’s chest, following the handles of his waist. He takes Connor in hand and swallows the other man’s gasp.

Connor’s arms wrap around his back from under Frederik’s arms. He hugs Frederik closer, burying his face into his shoulder so that he doesn’t have to look at Frederik undressing himself. Frederik takes one of Connor’s hands and encourages him to touch, which only makes Connor squirm. 

Frederik laughs into the bed covers. “Are you afraid?”

Connor does not answer. He’s hardly visible in the dark of their shared space, but he looks like something other-worldly. He must be red with desire by now. He layers the images in his head on top, now feeling the effects of his arousal.

He releases Connor’s hand and spreads his legs wide. Connor is quick to try and cover himself, though he does not succeed. Instead, he lies his arm over his eyes and only senses Frederik by touch. 

Connor bites into his arm to gag himself. The first few fingers are uncomfortable. What he can make easier with oil, he does. Nothing will spare Connor of the stretch. 

By the time he’s prepared to enter Connor, the other man has been reduced to small, insubstantial noises. He’s sobbing with the need to be close to him. Frederik uses his unoccupied hand to trace shapes into his neck and shoulders--whatever is available to him. He’s pressed with the need to enter Connor but also to devote himself to him. 

He wants to worship this half-god, a child of the moon who has blessed him with his presence. Frederik has had to prove himself many times over, and this will be the last trial.

When Frederik does take him, Connor grabs onto the bed with his heels and throws himself up. His muscles ripple and twitch, the sensation unknown to them. His face is scrunched up like he’s taken a blow in battle.

Frederik’s hands come away wet with the sweat on his nape. Everything feels so intense, down to the heat that is snug around him. He gives Connor a few shallow thrusts. He has to be careful to not let his enthusiasm overcome him, so he doesn’t risk injuring him. He occupies his mouth with the column of skin that is Connor’s throat, apportioning the pain to two places to make it more bearable. 

He finds a short rhythm and teaches it to Connor. Before long, the hands around Frederik’s shoulders beckon him onward. Connor is louder, talking into him with foreign words that may as well be incantations. He can hear the pleasure in his voice; he tries to give him as much of it as he can, until Connor can’t even capture the names of things in his native tongue.

The heat is unbearable. They are both clothed in the moisture on their bodies. He doesn’t chase the end. He prolongs it. He thrusts deep, just to hear the hitch. He helps Connor remember, again and again, that he’s wanted. Loved.

Connor is like any man that has been bedded. The curl of his toes, the mouth he doesn’t remember is open, the twitch when he has no other outlet for what Frederik is delivering onto him. He’s no god. He tells it to himself, again and again, until the words stop making sense. 

He throws Connor over the edge, listening to his scream as every muscle in his body tenses at once. He follows suit, finishing inside of him with a groan. Though he tries to prolong the sensation with a few shallow thrusts, it’s only a glimpse of what was. 

Connor is a lot less susceptible now. He’s released his arms from around Frederik’s neck and is wearing a swollen, damp face. He’s riding a high that disguises the soreness he’ll feel, come morning. Another mark, left behind. Like the gashes in trees, left behind by woodpeckers, only a lot less solid.

Connor is a beautiful thing. No different from any other treasure they’d find on the coast. A beautiful thing can be seen from far away. It’s coveted: rare and impossibly wondrous. Kept away from wanting eyes. Frederik would have to burn down villages to get to it--to hold it.

But beauty is not why Frederik brought Connor here, neither was the touch of the supernatural. Connor was one of few to injure Frederik in battle. He was a force of nature. Hard-bitten. Incautious, but practiced at the blade he swung. Even without the title of warrior, those qualities are a better definition of Connor than something as unsubstantial as the word beauty.

Frederik doesn’t want to lose him again, he decides.

Connor was saying something. Frederik only starts using his ears again once he’s down from whatever theory he was suspended from. He makes a throaty noise as his way of asking Connor to repeat himself.

“Please let me come with you,” he says.

“Would you fight by my side?”

“I’ll live up to my deamhan namesake,” answers Connor. He must realize that Frederik is coming around to the idea: his words come faster. “I will give them a true reason to fear me.”

Frederik kisses him as hard as he can. Their noses bash. They’re at the other’s teeth the whole time.

“You only have a day to prepare.”

“That’s okay,” he says with a full smile. “I don’t have many belongings.”

“Are you fit to see battle?”

“I practice. What do you think keeps me busy in the day?”

“I am running out of reasons.”

“Good. You need to stop thinking.” Connor looks near sleep. He can hardly keep his eyes open to continue the conversation.

Frederik kisses him lightly on the forehead. “Sleep well, love,” he says. He’s able to close his eyes with confidence, knowing he’ll see the same face tomorrow and for many more days after that.

He falls asleep thinking, but it’s nothing like it was before. He’s left to appreciate the blessing Connor has given him, something a lot more sacred than victory. 

“What are you doing?” Sebastian asks. He’s clad in his armour, having already said his farewells to his wife and daughter. The look he’s giving Connor is not kind.

“He’s replacing Bjørn.”

“And going back?”

“To fight.”

He squints. “What sense does that make?”

“Plenty. He is of fighting-age. He’s willing, he’s a capable rower, and Bjørn has a newborn to care for. Must I say more?”

“This isn’t what I meant, Frederik.”

“I know, and I did think about what you said. But he shares a common enemy with us; what better way to unite him than to fight on our behalf?”

“You do realize he might be tricking you? He’s a Celt.”

“Sure. He’s also a bloodborn. I think he has more loyalty to that than the people who attempted to murder him.”

Sebastian empties the air out of his chest. The fight leaves with him.

“I can only trust you now. I don’t want your spirit broken if he decides to run.”

“You have nothing to fear. We’ve had thralls come back with us before, and he’s made it clear that he sees his future with us.”

He turns to look at Connor as he speaks. He’s helping them load the boats with supplies, finding no common words but common actions. Once he sees how they flank the ship with their shields, he’s there, wedging them in on the rack.

He’s done up in braids and sashes. Frederik would’ve thought he would wear his hair down, as he once did. But it was Connor who woke first, who asked for Frederik to pull back his wet hair and keep it out of his eyes. He held the weaved strands as Frederik dove in with ribbon.

“I’m not sure I would still call him a thrall,” says Sebastian, before he boards. Frederik can’t help but agree.

The village gathers to see them off. The many hands of men, women, and children alike pass the oars through oarholes, helping them to row even though they’re not aboard as passengers. Frederik thanks each one personally, promising to come back with riches beyond their imaginations. 

There is always the risk that they won’t come back. He’s been three times lucky, but that never comes with a guarantee. He makes each goodbye feel like the last and is emotionally spent by the end, his tongue heavy in his mouth.

Connor is seated at the end, looking a bit out of his element. Frederik takes the oar beside him, kicking his few belongings aside. He’s just as much impacted by the anticipation of the journey. He can’t imagine how it feels for someone like Connor, who has always been looking in from the outside.

Connor does not appear to be affected. He opens up his hand and lets it be held. Frederik tells him the bare minimum of what will happen--to keep from overwhelming him--and comforts him with his presence alone.

He can’t tell Sebastian about the look in Connor’s eyes when he held him, for words are too simple--in any language. The intimacy they shared was proof only to themselves. Connor can’t use it on other people, and it will make it harder for them to understand.

Out here, closeless is not an option. They will learn him, and he hopes they will understand why this is personal.

They set sail, the wind easing the amount of manpower it takes to glide over the waves. Sea spray flies up in their faces, providing relief from the burn in their bodies created by their labour. Slowly, the sight of the town is smaller than a thumbprint.

He sees Connor looking back, over his shoulder.

“Are you sure you want to come? You won’t see land for very long.”

“I have made this voyage before,” replies Connor. He has to raise his voice to be heard over the sea and the sky.

“You could jump overboard.” He keeps his voice light, to stop Connor from taking him seriously.

“Who will match your rows then?” Connor gives a strong stroke. He is out of breath.

Frederik matches the power of his rows and cuts the water open with his oar. He moves in unison with them all--Connor included. Soon, the village is a distant memory. There is nothing to look back to.

The crew takes turns at the rowing benches, finding themselves playing games of strategy or resting in sleeping pouches between thwarts when it is not their turn. The small portions of food they are allowed will take some getting used to, but at least Connor is not phased by the taste of salted meat and soul milk. He helps himself to his rations with both hands.

Only when his mouth is not full does he try to talk. He points at a group of younger men and women who are crowded around a game of Tafl. He can’t see the game. He’s only able to judge the outcome by who laughs and jeers.

“You should go play,” says Frederik. “After the many times you beat me at it, your victory is assured.”

“I thought I was trying to get them to like me,” says Connor in tandem. 

“They already do, I’m sure.”

“They keep calling me Hálfdan. Did you tell them that is my name?”

Frederik has to pause to laugh. Connor, out of the know, watches him with both eyebrows held down. Why wouldn’t he be upset; it probably sounds like an insult.

He rushes to explain: “It means half-Dane. It is a nickname for once-thralls who walk among us. Some take it for a name when they leave their old life behind.”

“I thought you said you’d call me Kåre?”

Frederik throws his head up, gesturing at Connor’s appearance. “Your hair is not curly now.” Only a single strand hooks around Connor’s ear. The rest is tied back.

“I’m not Danish either.”

Frederik just stares at him, not bothering to dispute it with words. Connor already knows what he will say.

Connor licks his fingers clean, then rinses them in the rushing water that splashes up the boat’s siding. He’s there longer than necessary, holding his eyes away from Frederik.

“What of those who are truly half-Danish? What would they call my children?” he asks.

A part of Frederik thinks  _ mine. _ It’s a bit too bold to say out loud, even for him. Connor still might choose to go off with another. He may be happier elsewhere.

That doesn’t mean he hasn’t thought about it, though. Legends, even those concerning the bloodborn, are just stories after all. Anyone can tell a story. Connor is now the author of his own. In the future, he might just be the head of Frederik’s, ensuring his name will be passed down for generations. It makes his heart purr.

“They will be called fellow Danes.” he blurts out. “I should hope.” He can’t even force himself to be ashamed of it. 

Connor lies his forehead on Frederik’s shoulder with a laugh. It helps disguise the kiss he leaves behind from any wandering eyes. “Yeah, I hope so too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im projecting LOTS of love @riot and ally, my two best friends. thanks for being you, and also thank you for planning this story and getting excited about it with me! :)
> 
> warnings for this chapter include a semi-explicit sex scene! that's cool. not much else happens tbh. life is a bit lowkey in the viking village

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me on my [tumblr](https://cursivecherrypicking.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
